The unwilling guest
by Dark Arts Rising
Summary: Knocked out by a serial killer Sherlock is rescued by the most unlikely person of all. Not doing favours for free, the saviour insists on Sherlock being his 'guest' for a week. How will the Detective cope with being in Moriarty's debt and hands?
1. Sherlock, my dear

**A/N: **Hi, folks. This is the first joint venture of Dark Magical Socres and Merdealors. We created this new alias (Dark Arts Rising) for it.

We want to do in turns, one chapter from Sherlock's point of view (written by Merdealors), the next from Moriarty's (written by Dark Magical Socres). Please forgive any language mistakes, as at least one of us is not a native speaker.

We hope you enjoy the story. Please R & R!

**Disclaimer:** We don't own Sherlock (it's a pity, though)

**The unwilling guest**

**1. Sherlock****, my dear**

Sherlock Holmes stood in the hidden corner behind the doorway and watched the house on the opposite side of the backyard. The collar of his coat was folded up, his hands dug deep in his pockets and his face was almost hidden in the scarf. And yet the cold rain was dripping on his neck and he was freezing.

Damn the villain for not showing up! Damn John Watson for being down with the grandmother of all flues! Damn Lestrade for being on holiday in some sunny resort in the Mediterranean whilst some unfortunate Consulting Detective cooled his heels – and very literally so! – in the dreary drip-drip-drip of a persistent November rain in the outskirts of London, waiting for a serial killer who didn't want to come.

Damn, damn, _damn_!

Why on earth had he not chosen a cosy little office job like his brother Mycroft? Central heating, regular fees, no 'leg work' except for the daily walk to the cafeteria. If one could call brother Mycroft's activities 'work'!

But no, Sherlock Holmes had to spend his life in misery; to be sure it was a law of nature!

Six times the serial killer had struck, regular as clockwork. Always red headed young women, always in the outskirts of the big city, always on a rainy day. The only ingenuity of his 'method' was the escape route.

Christ, with Lestrade away and Anderson (oh but for crying out loud, _Anderson_!) in charge of investigations it had taken Sherlock even longer to convince the official safe-keepers of the law that the killer entered and escaped from every crime scene through the sewer system of which he obviously had intimate and profound knowledge.

Three days, three boring, exasperating days Sherlock had talked, talked, talked, like to an especially dump horse – which, of course, Anderson was – before the forensic specialist, for some inexplicable reason of his own trying to change his path of career by becoming a detective – had finally got it into this thick head of his that Holmes had found the ideal trap for the 'red head killer', as the yellow press had nicknamed him.

And what was the result of it? Anderson and his men were stuck in a traffic jam, Anderson had successfully annoyed each and everyone who'd be able to get him a helicopter and Sherlock was here alone, to plough a lonely furrow.

Great. Just great!

And the worst of all – Sherlock's trap did not work. Thrice the young policewoman who'd been brave enough to act as bait had contacted him, asking for orders, as nobody showed up.

Holmes made up his mind – five minutes more and then he'd call it a day, tell the young woman to go home and admit defeat to Anderson. It would make the imbecile's day but Sherlock would have the last laugh as he already had another tack in mind to capture the murderer. One which didn't include Anderson or The Yard at all. Besides, it would beware the Consulting Detective from freezing to the spot!

The minutes ticked away, one by one and Holmes reached for his mobile when suddenly something stirred in front of the other house. A man in a grey jumpsuit became visible, entering the backyard from the left side.

The side were the sewer system ended!

"I think he's coming!" Sherlock whispered into the mobile and the woman acknowledged the warning.

When the murderer – Sherlock had no doubts that this was his man – furtively entered the house, the Detective sneaked inside in his wake and followed him, without a sound, upstairs.

Once he'd reached the upper floor, Sherlock gave his prey a second to open the door with a lock pick. A minute later Holmes heard a short, sharp scream, then the sound of a brief struggle and the shot of a handgun. He dashed forward, taking the remaining few stairs with one leap and darted head first into the flat.

Where he froze! Just this time it wasn't from the cold.

The killer, one shoulder bleeding from what could only have been a graze shot, was bent over his victim who had at some point of the struggle been knocked out. At the sound of Holmes coming in, the man turned quickly but not without taking the girl up with him; using her as a shield.

The weapon he pressed against her temple was definitely not a police gun. The Yard usually did not use 357 Magnums.

Sherlock gulped down a lump of apprehension. Never before the man had used a firearm! Just his fists and, later on, a surgeon knife.

"Thought I'd come somewhat well prepared" the killer said, smirking. "You meant to catch me that easily. Thought I do not pick my lady-friends carefully. But I'm not a fool."

"_Seems that I'm the fool here_" Sherlock cursed himself, all of a sudden hilarious that Anderson wasn't here to witness his utter disgrace. However, on the other hand, the police's absence – except the unconscious woman – did nothing to improve their situation.

"Let her go" Holmes said as evenly as he could. "If you're here for a duel, that's fine with me. But not with her in the fire line."

"A duel?" The man seemed to think about the term. "Yes, I reckon one could call it that." His grin widened. "You know, when I spotted you, by sheer luck it was, I thought of a buddy of mine. You jailed him for life. I thought, why not have a wee bit o' fun with the little lassie here and see you go to hell for molesting my friend, all on the same day."

"You'll have to do without the fun part I'm afraid" Holmes replied.

"Oh will I?" The murderer fondled his hostage affectionately. The woman stirred uncomfortably and her captor looked down at her, taking his eyes off his opponent.

It was the slightest chance possible and yet Sherlock was so hell-bent on making amends for his former idiocy, possibly before the woman was able to realize what a half-wit he'd been, that he jumped the killer nonetheless.

The man yelped angrily but let go of his captive, pushing her aside.

Both men were worthy opponents of each other once Sherlock had kicked the gun out of the murderer's hand. Neither of them was able to win the upper hand.

At least not until the killer pulled a vicious looking knife out of his waistband without Sherlock noticing it. The Detective had reason to regret his sloppiness when the blade barely missed his heart and caused a big slash across his chest.

For a moment Holmes lost his rhythm and staggered, which caused a triumphant howl from his enemy and a renewed attack, the knife raised high, ready to kill.

The sharp sound of a shot into the ceiling interrupted the intended coup de grace. "Don't move!" the policewoman ordered. "Hands up!"

Holmes drew a deep, relieved breath, yet the murderer just shrugged. "You won't shoot" he said as he, as quick as lightning despite his injured shoulder, jumped forward and pushed Sherlock towards the officer, effectively blocking her line of fire.

Before anyone could hold him, he ran out and, judging from the sound of it, downstairs.

"Tell Anderson I'm after him" Sherlock screamed, mad with rage and humiliation. He was on his way before the woman could do anything. She hesitated just a second too long, torn between her instinct that told her to not leave the Detective to his fate and Anderson's strict order not to meddle with Holmes' work.

When she finally decided to follow both men, informing a shocked Anderson via mobile about recent events, it was too late.

The sewer cover was removed and the footprints made it clear that both Detective and killer had entered the system. She climbed down the ladder and followed the main corridor; however it split up two ways and alas, she chose the wrong one.

To be honest, Anderson was crestfallen. Especially as he thought of what Lestrade might have to say about the debacle when he came back. Anderson had his whole department searching for Holmes, day and night but they didn't find him or the murderer.

Therefore the police could not know what had really happened in a remote corner of the sewer system, where Sherlock had finally trapped his adversary.

They had resumed their fight and this time Holmes had been on the winning side, as the injury now troubled the killer more and more.

It had just been bad luck that Sherlock had slipped on a piece of slimy, wet and indefinable mud in the last decisive moment. Usually as sure footed as a mountain goat he lost his footing in midstride and toppled over.

The last thing Holmes thought before the murderer's fist hit the back of his head with brutal force was "_Mycroft won't like this_!"

The killer waited a split second, panting heavily, until he could be sure that Holmes was out as a light.

Finally he swept the sweat from his face. "Going to have my fun after all, won't I" he muttered before he went down on his haunches to tie the unconscious man up with his own belt and scarf. "Can have a redhead any day, but you – that's going to be special."

"Yes, he _is_ special, isn't he" a soft voice said in his back.

The killer shot to his feet and darted round.

A young, dark haired and dark-eyed man was watching him carefully, with a sad little smile. He would have been insignificant, not in the least intimidating, had it not been for the gun in his hand.

"What the hell do you want?" the killer snapped. "Who are ya?"

"This is the underworld" the young man smiled. "Take a guess – who am I?"

No understanding dawned on the killer's face. He still looked ridiculously dumbfounded when the projectile hit him and blew half his head away.

With an expression of utter delight the youngster saw the dead man fall into the, after many a rainy day, rapidly flowing water that took him away, mercifully hiding the gruesome state of his face. It would sure take time before the corpse would show up somewhere in or by the river.

As he put away his gun and strolled towards Holmes, hasty steps approached the young man.

"Sir" a breathless man addressed him a minute later. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine" the young man said. "But it's good you're here, I'll need your help with my friend. He needs a doctor and a nice, comfy place to recover from his ordeal."

Without any questions – he knew better than to question _this_ man's orders! – the bulky newcomer lifted Sherlock on his arms and made for the nearest exit where their van was waiting for them.

When Sherlock passed him by, the young man petted his cheek affectionately, and a bit worried. "Just as well that I keep a close eye on you my dear, isn't it?" he said softly. "Without me, what would the nasty man have done to you, hmh?"

Then he followed his helpmate and added "Take care Sherlock's not harmed any further, you hear me?"

"I will" the other replied eagerly. "I will, Mr. Moriarty."


	2. My wildcat, beware

**A/N: Hi, readers. I think you've noticed it by now: This story is not meant (too) serious. There's meant t be little humour, too.  
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**This is chapter 2, from Moriarty's point of view (and some thoughts of one of hsi helpmates) and written by Dark Magical Socres.**

**Please enjoy, R&R**

**2. My wildcat, beware!  
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Jim Moriarty sat in the back seat of his car listening to one of his most-loved romantic songs. The comforting melody of his favourite band's best piece - "teenagers" by Chemical Romance - filled the car. He had come to love this one as a kid. For every emotional upheaval in his life – and he had quite a lot of these – it was the perfect soothing balm.

Tonight he needed the song because he had come _this_ close to losing his most adored arch enemy and he was still shaking from the sudden fright.

Sherlock was _his_ to kill. He wouldn't rush it, though. When the time came he would say where, and when and most of all, how. Sherlock didn't deserve any harsh treatment, es pecially after what he'd been through tonight. Therefore James wouldn't torture him, of that he was sure. Well, not more than was absolutely necessary of course!

Naturally Moriarty couldn't allow anyone to interfere with his plans for the Detective. Nobody, absolutely nobody had the right to meddle with his exquisite, well planned schemes for Sherlock Holmes.

So, for now, he'd settle for the minimum reward for saving Sherlock's life. He'd thought before of how nice it would be to have some company. Not for long, just for a week or so. After all, after what James had done for him, something reeaaallllyyyy nice, Sherlock owed him a favour. Keeping boredom at bay for a week or so was the least to ask from a man whose life was in one's hands.

And if Sherlock didn't accept that plain and simple logic – well, there was always Johnny boy's well-being as an incentive.

Jim then began to wonder why Johnny hadn't been with Holmes tonight. As the obedient little lapdog he was he'd never have left Sherlock's side but for an important reason. Holmes usually took his pet with him everywhere.

But then, James Moriarty had more important things to ponder than the imbecile doctor's whereabouts.

The car came to a halt in front of Moriarty's home and he let all irrelevant thoughts slip his mind. Lithely as a cat James left the car. It was ridiculous, his bully/helpmate/associate/henchman would surely know how to haul an unconscious man from the back seat of a car. Truth be told, the man had lots of experience on that score. And yet Moriarty had the irrepressible urge to supervise the act.

Sherlock was still unconscious in the man's arms.

Again James ran a hand through Holme's black curls, lost in thought. Suddenly he felt that his employee was smiling; the tiniest, almost invisible grin.

For the first time in many years the Criminal Mastermind, the foremost brain of all the planet felt his cheeks grow hot in embarrassment. As a result, he virtually snapped his next orders at his associate. "Take him to the guest room. The _secure_ guest room. Have you phoned the doctor? Can't you see he's in need of medical assistance?"

It was extremely gratifying to see that the bully visibly made himself smaller. James had made an art of being feared by his men – and women – without actually doing any dirty work on either of them and he was always happy to see the spell of his overwhelming personality work again.

He was most definitely looking forward to seeing it work on Sherlock Holmes!

As it was, that was part of the fun to come. The Consulting Detective, for all his apparent loathing for his family's – especially his detestable, tiresome elder brother's – upper class standards, had as stiff an upper lip as they come. Proud, indeed arrogant, dignified and self-centred Sherlock would be the ultimate test for James' ability to intimidate people just by being who and what he was.

The henchman, meanwhile, had trouble reading his boss' expression. Probably his high and mighty-ness was gettin' it all wrong again. Made a bit of yellin' an' thought he'd be the big lion on the pasture. Would be fun if it couldn't mean that Mr. Boss' anger could get your salary cut by half or more. The Colonel, the man who actually ran the business, would see to that. "_Keep the brain happy_" as the Colonel always said."_I could hire an other pair of hands any day but mad cat Moriarty's indispensable. Got it_?"

"Yes Sir, Colonel Moran, Sir." All of Moriarty's men got it or they finished being Moriarty's men soon enough..

All right, make 'im happy then. "Yes, Sir, Mr. Moriarty, Sir. And the doctor, he's on his way, Sir. Just as you wanted Sir." The bully would have given much for a chance to wipe the sweat off his brow when he saw Mr. Boss smile contently. Pooh, that had been close.

"Let's go inside" James added angrily "it has been a long day for me."

"_For you?_" the henchman thought "_an' who's been resting his arse on purple cushions whilst the likes of me were washing the car eh_?" God, he liked that phrase from the only theatre play he'd ever visited. But naturally he couldn't use it with his boss, not aloud that was. Aloud, he said something completely different. "Yes, Sir. Of course Sir."

And with that, they both headed inside.

Whilst the associate took Sherlock up to the guest room, Jim went to his library and sat down in the comfy reading chair, thinking, as was his custom, two or three steps ahead of his present situation.

Having Sherlock here for a week _was_ going to be fun. To himself James admitted that he got lonely at times. But that was part of being a Consulting Criminal he supposed, so he couldn't didn't mind it too much. And yet, having Sherlock around would make for a nice change. And didn't he deserve a bit of pleasure? A man with his workload certainly did! Of course, there was the financial aspect to consider. If James Moriarty was the least bit distracted, the Criminal Bond Market would suffer severely. And that was as it ought to be. After all, he was too big to fail!

But maybe, just maybe, he could combine business and pleasure...

James thought his spontaneous idea over carefully. Yes, that would work. _And_ it would the put the Holmes brothers in their shoes while showing a nice profit for the trouble.

Meanwhile, still sitting in his favourite scheming-and-thinking-place, James heard the doctor come, go upstairs, stay for a short while and leave again.

Moriarty smiled to himself, as pleased and satisfied as the proverbial cat that ate the cream. Good, that was good. So he would have someone to talk to for a while as well as his subtle revenge on Holmes where it stung most. He would have to make sure he treated Sherlock nicely. Other than the blackmailing thing, of course. If he was forced to bring Johnny-doggy's well being into it to make Sherlock play ball, so be it. But that had to be as far as he could go in this. No broken bones or the like, as Holmes being hurt would ruin the elegance of it.

Having come that far, Jim felt suddenly tired. He walked upstairs, planning to turn in early today. And yet, despite his better judgement, he couldn't resist the urge to walk past the guest room and have a short peep at the latest – if most probably unwilling and, alas, preliminary - addition to his menagerie.

He was careful not to wake Sherlock when he unlocked the door and went inside. He scrutinized Holmes' sleeping – this time from an injection – form. "_Poor thing_" James thought fondly. "_Don't you worry, the man who did this to you is gone. It's just you and me now_." He then pulled the covers over his 'guest'. "We can talk tomorrow about how you can return the favour to me" he whispered softly as he left " you and your brother."

"Good night for now" James added, standing in the door and switching off the light. With that he walked out to the gallery and went to his own room. God, he was exhausted. And tomorrow would be such an exciting day.

The taming of the wild cat would begin.


	3. Family affairs

**A/N: Hi, readers. This is chapter 3, from Sherlock's point of view and written by Merdealors.**

**Please enjoy, R&R**

**3. Family affairs**

Sherlock woke in stages.

Oddly enough, the first strange thing he noticed was the feeling of the pyjama against his skin. Ever since he'd finally succeeded in persuading Mycroft to let him buy his own clothes – must have been around his 19th or 20th birthday – the younger Holmes had not worn silk pyjamas. At least not voluntarily. And espe cially not black-gold ones.

Only after this realization it came to him that he had no idea where he was. He jumped out of the bed – black-golden too, Christ Almighty – resolved to make a dash to the door and out of here. Wherever 'here' was.

Unfortunately he had a formidable goose egg on the back of his head and the damn thing had other plans. The quick movement made his head spin, his stomach heaved up and he sat down faster than he had got up. The headache told him all he had forgotten about (last?) night.

Trap-hunt-killer-knocked-out-nothing-since-then. That was about it.

Just a vague memory of the murderer talking about some 'special treatment' for a petty – and doubtlessly not very pretty – personal vendetta.

Sherlock was no coward but his mouth went dry. Circumstances suggested that he had ended up in the killer's den. Alone and without an obvious chance to contact anyone. Spontaneously he heard his own and John's voice in his mind. "_Not good_?" and the imagined Watson shook his had ruefully "_a bit not good_."

"Helpful as ever" Sherlock muttered. He sighed angrily. Imagined or real, John wouldn't help him in this. He was on his own. _Again_!

Well, there was nothing for it then. He rose – cautiously this time – and made his way to the door. No luck here, the darn thing didn't have a handle on the inside. A quick survey confirmed that the room, luxurious as it was, was meant not as a shelter but as a prison cell. Large windows, not barred, but locked and paned with armoured glass. Emphasis most definitely on 'armoured', not on 'glass'. They overlooked a garden scene in which absolutely nothing stirred. All right, message understood. Scream at the glass walls as much as you like, no one will hear you.

No phone, no computer, nothing. Chairs and most of the other furniture too heavy to be lifted or fastened to the floor. Nothing that could work as a weapon.

Some detail-obsessed maniac's paradise with a soft spot for fine woodwork. Holmes concluded he could consider himself lucky that he wasn't restrained, just for triple security.

And yet there was something fishy about the surroundings. The killer had struck Sherlock as a bit primitive, barely educated. Most definitely not refined. But the furnishings _were_ expensive, to say the very least. And, at least in some elderly, stuffy British gentlemen's opinion, they spoke of taste. Of a man who chose carefully. A man who was particular, who had a big purse, a will to show it and an ego to pamper in the process.

Nothing of this applied to the murderer Holmes had pursued in the waste water system.

But if it wasn't him...

Sherlock looked at his surroundings again and swallowed hard. Damn, he'd known he'd overdone it this time. Quite obviously he'd overstepped the final mark for good. Or, rather, for worse.

This room, especially the fact that he couldn't leave it, spoke loudly of somebody else. Of a very familiar face. Someone he'd given one verbal and emotional thrashing too many during the last few months. Sooner or later his misbehaviour had been _bound_ to have consequences.

The captive exhaled sharply and let his head fall forward. When would he _finally_ learn to treat the man constructively?

But on the other hand – black-golden silk pyjamas, for crying out loud!

Alas, complaining wouldn't help. Once the madman had made up his mind to bring his foot down, complaining never helped.

Sherlock put both fists on his hips, raised his head defiantly and yelled at the ceiling. "What the hell is this about?" As if he didn't know! "Mycroft! Show yourself."

The ceiling didn't answer.

"Damn it brother. You can't expect me to accept a checked cap and coat for a birthday present! _And_ six weeks _after_ the event!"

The room kept silent.

"C'me on, Mycroft. Even you must understand – what on earth am I to do with a _pipe_? It's impossible to keep up a smoking habit in London these days."

Nothing.

"Brother, I know you meant well. I'm sorry I ridiculed you in front of John and Lestrade. I didn't mean to. Now let me out!"

Silence on all fronts.

"John is sick in case you haven't noticed. He's alone at home. He needs me."

Obviously the perspective of Sherlock Holmes being a sympathetic nurse for an unfortunate flue patient wasn't very convincing for the man at the other end of the surveillance line.

Frustrated and more than a little bit enraged, Holmes decided to rise the escalation level. _What_ had their mother always called her eldest son when she wished to see him go nuts? Oh, yes. "This is unlawful detainment, _stuffy bunny_. Doesn't look good on your record!"

This time Sherlock definitely heard something. Like a camera moving and a loudspeaker or microphone clicking.

But nobody talked.

At least not yet.

"I mean it, _sweet shanks_. You don't have a drug addiction for an excuse this time." Sherlock hoped desperately that the secret larder for recreational stuff he had built in under the floorboards of 221B Baker Street hadn't been found. "You can't lock me up, I'm clean!"

No, that didn't do the trick either.

"To hell with you, Mycroft. It isn't a criminal offence to dislike your birthday gifts! Let me out, _now_!"

The equipment clicked again but that was as far as it went.

Sherlock gave it up for the moment. If the almighty secret agent wanted to have it the tough way, so be it. But this time the younger brother would teach him a lesson when the time came. A lesson big brother would never forget.

For now the younger Holmes turned his intention to the bundle of clothes he'd spotted earlier on a sofa near the corner window. He sneered when he examined them closer. Brown shirt, jeans, socks and sneakers, mustard coloured cord jacket (yugh!) a pullover and (God help me) a brown, knitted wool tie! As for the underwear – Sherlock refused to have a closer look at it. Abominable. Clean, in fact still in the package but... brrh.

"Mycroft, not even you can be serious about these things!"

After one or two more fruitless minutes Sherlock gathered the clothes and headed for the bathroom that was attached to the bedchamber. The flowery smell that came from the ajar door was a dead give-away.

He took a hot shower – let Mycroft curse the fog it brought to his camera lenses – slipped into the underwear with his eyes closed and put on the jeans, shirt, socks and shoes. The rest of the stuff he threw to the wet floor in a bundle to rot. Hopefully rot fast.

He was half way in the pants when he heard the surveillance equipment rustle and click again.

All of a sudden anger and humiliation overwhelmed him. Too much was too much. "For God's sake Mycroft, leave my naked arse alone!" he yelled at the top of his voice.

This time an answer _did_ come from the loudspeakers, it just wasn't the voice he'd expected to hear.

But even so, Sherlock recognized this voice instantly, would've recognized it anywhere and any time. However, recognition did nothing to calm his nerves, it just turned his anger into apprehension.

"Sweet shanks?" Moriarty's voice asked laughingly. "You call your brother _sweet shanks_?"

The one moment changed Sherlock's attitude completely. Especially as he remembered only now that nobody, not even John, was private to information about his hunt for the serial killer. Sherlock himself had sworn Anderson to utter secrecy. Surely The Yard's most stupid idiot would keep all information to himself, using Sherlock's own words as an excuse for letting him down.

Holmes' flinched a bit when he heard a key turn in the outer door's invisible locking mechanism. Hastily he pulled the shirt over his head.

His face was hard, withdrawn. All muscles tensed. He looked calm, in control.

Inwardly, he was anything but. "_Mycroft, where are you_?" he thought. "_Big brother, I need you_!" From some hidden department for absurd humour and insensitive remarks inside his soul, the department that always brought him into hot water with other people, another thought came "_and before this is over I'll sure need a doctor, too!"_

The door opened slowly.


	4. That's how deals are made

**4. That's how deals are made**

The door swung open and James braced himself for anything. He could easily deduce Sherlock's mood. If, heaven forbid, their positions were reversed - if he'd made such a complete asshole of himself – and his brother – in front of an arch enemy James wouldn't be in the best of spirits either.

Luckily, Sherlock did not try to make amends for his blunder by doing anything stupid. Like jumping at his captor. Or yelling childish insults. Or locking himself in the bathroom.

Instead he stood in the middle of the living room. Wary, alert, but quietly.

"Good morning, my dear" James opened the battle, never taking his eyes from his prey. "I hope you slept well. How's the poor head?"

"Still on my shoulders" Holmes retorted flatly. "It's my turn to ask if that's a weapon in your pants or the pleasure to see me cornered?"

Moriarty pulled the small capture gun from his pocket and showed it briefly. "Both, I'm afraid." he said with an ironic smile. But he didn't delude himself. Sherlock was anything but intimidated. The wildcat was just biding his time, assessing the situation. He wanted to know the rules of the game, not play along with them.

Time to get the inconvenient part over and done with. "Cornered, yes" James said kindly. "I guess that's one way to put it. I would prefer another phrase but if you feel better with this one, by all means, stick to it."

"What am I doing here, Moriarty? And stop playing the thoughtful host, it's absurd."

"Not in the least. You were lucky I was there last night. To save your backside from a fate worse than death." James feigned a shiver of horror "the newspaper reports about this nasty serial killer and what he does to his poor, poor victims... the very idea of what he'd done to you makes me shudder. The man must be completely nuts. Some kind of psychopath, don't you think? A freak!"

Was that a grin in Sherlock's face? Gone as quickly as it had come? Yes, yes, that had been a grin, James was certain of it.

"You should know" Holmes retorted. "You're the expert. Who knows, it might've been you who's sold the idea of the waste water system to him. Did you throw in the maps or do you charge extra for that?"

"Not my street, Sherlock. The man – his name is Tom Jenkins by the way – is not my type. Most of all, he couldn't afford my fees. I finished doing petty business, long ago."

"But you're still in the kidnapping business."

"Am I?"

"You just kidnapped me while I was out flat" said Sherlock and for the first time, his gaze left his opponent and went to the open door in James' back. The message from that was clear: The Detective thought that enough of his valuable time had been wasted and that it was time to go. Tom Jenkins, and the killer's face – there would be an arrest before lunch.

"_No, my friend_" Moriarty thought. "_You're on the wrong track_." With an abrupt movement he reached behind his back and gave the door a hard push. It banged shut. "Again" he said "if that's what you prefer to call it – please do. I for my part call it saving you. And the reason for you being here is – I want a reward. I did something very nice for you, now you're going to do something nice for me."

"Nice! I'm going to do something nice for _you_?" Holmes voice dripped sarcasm.

"Nothing hideous or too indecent. I just would like you to be my guest for a week." Moriarty _loved_ the reaction to that. God, this was so very wonderful. There couldn't be many people in this world who'd ever seen Sherlock Holmes gawk speechlessly, like a moonstruck calf in a thunderstorm.

"What makes you think I'm going to stay here for a week?" the Detective finally regained his voice.

"Don't you like it here?" James asked back, pointing at the surroundings. The locked windows, the handle-less door, the cameras. "I've roundabout twelve men in the house who're especially trained to make my guests stay as long as I like."

"Sorry. I already hate it after the first night. All this black and gold, the tropic woods – it's a trifle showy. Did no one ever teach you some taste?"

"_And still you've not budged_" James thought. "_So you __**do**__ remember the night at the pool. You know I'd not come to you unprepared._" Aloud he said "it's hard to find someone suitable. Perhaps you could give me some advice. After all you call your brother 'Sweet Shanks' and 'Stuffy Bunny'. Remarkably good taste and manners, I must say."

Holmes winced visibly. "_Ouch. Gotcha!_" Moriarty already enjoyed himself thoroughly. Oh, this would be _so_ much fun. Why'd he not done that earlier? "Come to think of it, you're exactly what I need Sherlock, a tonic for my nerves. I can't let you go. Please stay."

Holmes grabbed the jacket – in such a disgusting state after its brief lie-in on the wet bathroom floor – and made for the door.

As always Moriarty admired the man's gracefulness. Sherlock moved like a dancer. And he sure was a very convincing actor. If his captor hadn't known better he'd thought the Detective went past him in serene calm, without a care in the world.

Sherlock only stopped when James' arm shot by his face and blocked the door frame. Naturally it wasn't the arm, it was the capture gun pressed to his side that did the trick. "I _said_" Moriarty insisted "you stay!"

"I have a life to lead and you're not my friend. Why should I stay?"

"_The nerve_" Moriarty thought enthusiastically. "_Such nerve. A weapon pressed to his side, twelve men between him and the exit and he asks me why he should stay!" _A pity that he had to crush this confidence here and now. "Think again my dear. If – and I say if – you manage to get out of the house, your friend Johnny will not survive this day. My men know my plans, if you attack me or molest me in any way, Watson _will_ die."

The blow hit home, James could see it hit the mark. Holmes had been pale before, from his ordeal the night before, but not as white as he was now. His eyes narrowed, searched James' face. For confirmation? He could have that. "I'll do it, Sherlock. You know I can. Just a week, my dear. It's not too much to ask for a friend's life, is it."

All of a sudden Sherlock shrugged, the jacket was thrown to the floor and he leaned against the wall. "If you put it this way, how could I refuse?"

"You will stay?"

"I promise I will stay. For a week."

James relaxed. Not too much, though. After all, this had been only the first round. "Shall we have breakfast then?"

Holmes wanted to say 'no', that much was obvious. However, he thought better of it. James deduced that the threat against his faithful - if annoyingly insignificant and low-level – flatmate had rattled him even more than James had hoped.

It took Moriarty an effort to hide his satisfaction when Sherlock just nodded and followed him down the stairs to the breakfast room. There was nothing better than a victorious battle to give a man a healthy appetite.

"Aren't you eating some of this?" James saw his 'guest' only picking at his food. "It's good, I assure you."

Sherlock frowned, but he did not say anything. He didn't eat, either.

"You don't have to worry, darling, its not poisoned" James said. "Eat!"

"I'm used to going without food for a while" Holmes replied calmly. "I do not want to eat."

"I said, eat!"

"Don't get your hopes up, Moriarty. You haven't bought yourself a slave!" Sherlock's tone of voice matched James' in anger and sharpness.

"_All right_" James thought. "_Short breaks only. Second round is already on._" He raised his voice for the first time this morning. "Let me get one thing straight, my dear. This is my house, you're in no position to bargain and you will do as I say. Rule No. 1: You will not call me 'Moriarty' again. I'm Jim for you and you're Sherlock to me. Rule No. 2: You will not refuse anything I give to you, not the clothes and most definitely not the food. Understood?"

Holmes didn't look very frightened. "I said I'll stay. I won't try to run or contact someone but that's as far as it goes. Whatever sick, kitschy theater play you want to perform here, I'll not ape the funny side-kick for you. Forget it!"

James knew, if he backed off now he'd never bring his foot down again. And he would not leave the Holmes brothers off the hook that easily. No, he had decided he'd teach them a lesson and a lesson it would be. "Perhaps you'd prefer to spend that week chained down? At least it would spare us both these useless debates."

Sherlock pushed his chair back with a jolt and rose.

As calm as you please, James dabbed his mouth with the napkin "Where do you think you're going my dear?"

"Upstairs. Back to the bedroom."

"Suit yourself. But if you go now you will not leave that room again until say I let you go. And I already enjoy having you. You're sure you want to cancel our deal? Cancel the time-limit, too?"

Holmes lowered his head briefly and Moriarty heard him draw a deep breath. Abruptly he turned and came back to the table where he sat down. "Fine. Have it your way."

"Have it your way who? The cat's mother?"

"Have it your way... Jim."

After this first victory James found bringing his foot down much easier than he'd thought. Sherlock even munched two slices of bread with cheese, although, judging from his face, he felt he was eating rotted lemons.

"Well done, my dear" Moriarty said afterward. "That wasn't so bad, was it. And it's only for a week." By now he'd risen and laid his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. The man's muscles twitched and tensed under the obtrusive fingers but he did not pull away. Fearfully or just waiting for a better chance?

"Don't worry, I'll not make it a month, although I could easily do that" James added "I promise you'll be happy enough. What do a few days matter?"

Sherlock didn't reply anything and his face gave nothing away this time. Yet from the movement of his back Moriarty could tell that he heaved an inaudible sigh. "_It's going to be a long week for me_." James could almost hear him think it. And he couldn't have agreed more. This would indeed be a long week for the brothers. Spoilt brats they were, indulged by anyone for their singular talents, but now they'd met their equal, no, their better even. Their match on every score. When this week came to an end, neither Sherlock nor Mycroft Holmes would be able to deny that.

"I like to play games in the morning" James said merrily. "Do you like to play? Shall we play pick-a-stick?" This game, of all possible choices, would be real torture to someone who hated sitting down quietly unless to ponder a complicated problem or case.

As Moriarty had expected, Sherlock's shoulders tensed even more, yet he kept his loathing to himself. "Yes. Why not. Let's play." Belatedly he added "Jim."

So they played, Sherlock lost every game and James had the intense joy of seeing him virtually beam in happiness when he was allowed to go to his room for an hour. The wildcat had definitely learned to heed his master's wishes.

As it was, Moriarty needed the hour of spare time to do some urgent correspondence. He wrote a letter, wrapped a little gift and had both delivered as speedy as possible. A look at his watch confirmed that the agreed hour had passed. With joyful anticipation he went upstairs, to once more play a bit with his new found pet.

This afternoon, a package was delivered to Mycroft Holmes' office. Special delivery by a private carrier, Anthea had signed for it. As the sender was a S. H., living in 221B Baker Street, she had had it x-rayed but she'd not even dreamed of opening it.

Mildly surprised, Mycroft first unwrapped Sherlock's mobile phone. Well, the boy had obviously found out that big brother had had it bugged and bought himself a new one. No problem, Mycroft's staff would bug the new phone in no time. When would the boy finally learn?

Only now Mycroft noticed that the phone's backside was a bit sticky. When he looked at his fingertips they were read. It took him a moment before he realized that he had touched blood.

Hastily the elder Holmes opened the attached letter.

Five minutes later he left his office in some haste, shouting something about an urgent top secret business at his assistant. Anthea sighed. Little-brother-problems. Again! As sure as eggs were eggs her boss would not be back any time soon.

In the privacy of his flat Mycroft reread the letter, one hand clamped over his mouth.

_Dear Stuffy Bunny,_

_by now you will have noticed that you're one tiresome little brother short. Don't you fear, Sherlock is my guest of honour for the time being. You know, I could get used to having him around. It's therefore unfortunate that he wishes to leave so urgently, I had to take some nasty measures to keep him here. I think he dearly desires you to bail him out. I guess some information about some certain people and firms, which are easily obtainable to a man in your position, should be enough to cover my expenses on your brother's behalf. I'll take the liberty of contacting you again later._

_Rest assured that Sherlock will come to no further harm until then. I for my part feel assured that you'd not even think of letting your little brother suffer the consequences of you involving The Yard or your own people in this very private affair._

_Sherlock sends his love to you, sweet shanks._

_Kind regards_

_A fan of Sherlock Holmes_

Mycroft swallowed hard. But the bile in his throat didn't go away. Bent over the washbasin in his bathroom the elder Holmes let his thoughts run wild. That was what he'd always feared like hell-fire, that someone would take it out on his younger brother, that Sherlock would be used for leverage. That Mycroft Holmes would have to choose between his country and his brother.

That was the reason behind all the surveillance measures, the bugged phones and laptops, the cameras and microphones, the secret conversations with Lestrade, Watson and virtually anybody else who came near Sherlock.

For Mycroft knew he'd made that choice long ago. And God help him, England's chances were slim at the best of times.

Now they were virtually nil, as Mycroft couldn't even begin to imagine what horrible tortures this criminal must have inflicted on his helpless little brother. For one thing was absolutely certain. Sherlock would not willingly betray his elder brother's nicknames to anyone.

Under no circumstances Sherlock would blabber them out, just like that.

Never.


	5. Games, games and no end in sight

**A/N: This is another chapter from Sherlock's POV. **

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**5. Games, games and no end in sight**

Sherlock lay on the bed full-length, his arms crossed beneath his neck, and stared at the ceiling. He didn't even _think_ of sleep. Anger and degradation were boiling inside him and he was grateful for the night's darkness that hid his embittered face from any prying eyes. At least he hoped that Moriarty's cameras weren't fitted with night-vision.

It had been a _hell_ of a day. A dozen – oh what was he thinking – a _hundred_ times he'd liked nothing better than taking on all twelve of Moriarty's henchmen for the ghost of a chance to get away from this place. And six more days to come before this was – hopefully! - over.

If only he wasn't _that_ convinced that Moriarty would make good on his threat against John. Now, should Sherlock cross him. Later on, perhaps, no matter how much his 'guest' humoured him in the days to come.

There was nothing for it – something had to be found that would enable the police to take Moriarty and his organisation into custody for good. Otherwise neither Sherlock nor John would ever be safe. For that, the Detective had to search Moriarty's house, had to pry into the man's affairs. Why not do it now, as Moriarty himself had been careless enough to bring him into his den? Agreeing to stay for a week was just the corner stone of a spontaneously conjured up plan.

It was all well and sound enough in theory. To go through with it in practice was much harder.

Holmes rolled his eyes as he remembered the man's idea of a nice afternoon.

When he'd returned to torment his most unwilling visitor with a large bag in his hand, the criminal had radiated excitement and joyful expectation through every buttonhole. "Hi, Sherlock. Missed me? Had to do something in my library. May I introduce you to my most favourite book of all. Harry Potter!"

"Book_**s**_" Sherlock had automatically corrected him. "These are _seven_ paperbacks you're holding."

"How very clever you are. Yes, seven books, yet one hell of a story. But surely you know this, everyone knows Harry Potter."

"I'm not very well versed in the art of pottery" Sherlock replied and even to his own ears it sounded somewhat stiff and defiant. The last thing he felt up to in this moment was a debate about some ancient handicraft with a freaked out criminal who considered himself an expert. What Holmes really needed was some time off without being locked in and/or kept under surveillance.

"Pottery" 'Jim' said, obviously dumbfounded "What on earth has pottery to do with it?"

Sherlock resisted the urge to close his eyes in disgusted frustration. Instead he forced himself to keep calm and amiable with a will. "I'm sorry. _Porcelain_, if that is what you want to hear." His hands opened and closed, driven by some nasty thoughts. "_If he asks __me about the mark of the Haang-Wou or the blue line of the Cheng Dynasty or such __nonsense I swear, madness or no, I'll strangle him!"_

Moriarty's face worked visibly, although to what end, laugh or cry, had yet to be decided. "It's true, isn't it" he said disbelievingly. "What your Johnny-boy wrote in his blog. You really don't know that the earth goes round the sun."

Sherlock groaned inwardly. Not the solar system! Not _again_! Damn John Watson and his Study in Pink! And what the hell was the connection between a Potterer named Harry and the order of the universe? This was getting crazier by the second.

"How can anyone on this planet not know Harry Potter?" Moriarty squealed in the high pitched tone of utter desperation. I mean, he's... he's... _Harry POTTER_! The man who defeated the great Voldemort. Which was a horrible injustice, by the way. The stupid whelp is _nothing_ compared to the Mastermind of the Dark Arts. Voldemort is THE BEST of the BEST!"

"Even better than you?" Sherlock asked haphazardly. He had no idea what the maniac was talking about and truth be told he didn't give a shit.

What now happened in Moriarty's face was aptly described only by the term 'the most radiant sunrise possible'. "Yes" he said, his voice still shrieking, only this time with enthusiasm. "Tell you what, I've just got the latest computer game from this 'verse, _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallow._ Naturally I've tampered with it a bit. All these stupid rules and restrictions, idiotic. Such a hindrance to true intelligence and creativity!"

"Yeah, sure" Sherlock tried another shot in the dark. As he still was absolutely clueless, agreeing seemed the best risk-reducing strategy. "And now this game is... better than before? You improved it?"

"Of course I've improved it. I'm 'Jim-from-IT', remember? Now Voldemort has got what was always denied to him – a fair chance to defeat this dwarfish stuffy babbitt Harry Potter." 'Jim' leaned back in the armchair he'd meanwhile settled in, just opposite a still standing Holmes. "I'm so glad you've finally figured out what I'm talking about. Better late than never. Come on, let's play."

"Play?" Sherlock felt his pulse getting faster. This was childish, ludicrous and an abominable waste of time. Was there no end to the other's idiocy? And this was the Criminal Mastermind who considered himself a befitting arch-enemy for Sherlock Holmes? It was _disgraceful._

However, it was now apparently Moriarty's turn to close his eyes in frustration and, unlike his 'guest' earlier, he showed no restraint at all. "Yes, Sherlock, play. This is a computer game for two players, you are here, I am here, 1 + 1 makes 2. Got it or shall I explain it to you more slowly?" He looked at the Detective punitively. "You _do_ know what a computer game is, Sherlock?"

For a second Holmes thought about telling the preposterous idiot that he could go to hell, but then he'd most probably end up in some dark cellar room with a chain around his neck. As this wouldn't be in the least helpful, Sherlock quelled his emotions at once. "I do have a computer, you know" was all he said.

"Great. Sit down." Quickly Moriarty handed his 'guest' a netbook. The display already sported the first page of the announced game, ready for one player to play Harry Potter,whilst the other player – naturally James himself – would play Voldemort. A happy jolt shot through Sherlock's mind when he saw that the netbook was actually online, using one of several WLan connections installed in the house. A quick, furtive glance at the tool bar confirmed that all functions were available. Not only e-mail but also access to a virtual server with more than 80 gigabyte of storage capacity, almost full.

And there was a whole internal network linked with this server.

"_That's it_" Sherlock thought excitedly. "_Half an hour alone with this thing and I'm back in business_." His fingers itched when he thought of what evidence he might find on that server. Murder, abductions, blackmails, a whole who-is-who of England's criminal classes. Crimes and illegal connections which, unlike the pool incident, could be proved beyond all reasonable doubt.

So what that he'd promised not to contact anyone whilst being here. He could always send what he found to himself, to make good use of it later on, when he was back home.

Holmes looked up and he quickly controlled his face when he met Moriarty's sly gaze.

"Look" James said with a smile that, to Sherlock, looked definitely wicked. "It's more fun if we play for a prize. Like poker. The winner takes it all."

"The winner takes what?" Holmes asked distractedly, too busy with thinking about how to gain access to the data treasure without his 'host' noticing it.

"Oh c'me on, it's easy enough, even for you Sherlock. If you win, you're free at once. Anyway, Harry Potter has no longer a part to play in Hogwarts once Voldemort is gone. But if _I_ win, well..." he paused and his grin became positively devilish "Voldemort will claim Harry for himself to all eternity. Harry's powers will make a fine addition to Voldemort's gifts."

"_Whatever you say_" an unnerved Detective thought, who didn't understand one word of this weird talk. "Deal" he said quickly. "Let's play."

Unnecessary to say that Sherlock lost every game. Or as Moriarty put it, the Detective had been 'pwnd', whatever that meant. In the evening it was 3 : 0 for Voldemort; James was hilarious; Holmes mostly indifferent and trying to hide it. Not even as a child he'd cared much for sorcery or fairy tales. Where logic didn't count and every villain could fly away on a broomstick when the mood pleased him, little Sherlock had got bored. Every nanny as well as Mummy and elder brother had soon enough learned to fear that state of mind. So out the story books had went, never to return.

No, Sherlock couldn't have cared less about his defeat, had it not been for Moriarty's unendurable gloating.

The man went beside himself to ram his superior intellect and skill down his prisoner's throat which meant that Holmes didn't need much acting talent to show some aggravation about the constant bickering.

It had it's advantages, though.

Every once in a while Sherlock'd roamed some areas of the computer's hard disk and the network that had nothing whatsoever to do with warts, dog warts or hog warts or whatever skin anomalies it pleased the madman to toy around with. The yield had been satisfying, to say the very least, and all Sherlock needed now was another 15 minutes with the e-mail system to bring it home.

"All right... Jim" a seemingly crestfallen and deeply embarrassed Holmes therefore said. "You're too good for me. I admit it. Now can we talk about something else, please?"

Naturally, they could not. Moriarty was far too happy about his victory to let it go so easily. He droned on and on about it. In the end, it was him who actually suggested that Sherlock should keep the netbook for the night. As his generous 'host' had an early appointment tomorrow, Holmes would have all the time in the world to train for the next round of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallow, hopefully to become a more worthy opponent for a genius like James Moriarty. Pardon. _Voldemort_, of course.

This time Sherlock _was_ flabbergasted. Was it possible that the criminal, mad but – unfortunately - not dumb, had forgotten what this netbook could do? That it could tap every shred of communication technology he had in the house?

By all appearances, this was the case, as James virtually forced the netbook on his seemingly most reluctant 'guest' before he, quite abruptly and unexpectedly, left Sherlock alone, wishing him, at nine o'clock in the evening, a very good night.

Belatedly Holmes remembered their earlier conversation and he called after James "by the way, what was this prize you were talking about?"

Moriarty smiled most fondly. "You'll see soon enough. I'll think of something. Again, have a good night."

After he'd left and Holmes had heard the determined turn of the key in the door he resisted the urge to bash the netbook to the nearest wall. After all he needed the damn thing.

To keep up appearances, he had to give the stupid game another try. During the first five minutes he'd noticed a record that registered all hits to the various pages of the game. No chance to 'do-as-if' without actually using the darn software.

For an hour or two Sherlock played around on the childish programme, then he thought he'd suffered more than enough and laid the netbook aside.

Now he was mercilessly confronted with the fact that it was way too early for a born night-owl like him to go to bed and yet he had nothing else to do. He couldn't possibly access the e-mail programme now, as the set of clicks and scrolling that went with it was very characteristic. By no chance the silent observers would mistake it for another attempt to win the battle against Voldemort.

Therefore Sherlock had lingered in the bathroom, dragging out his usual routine as long as he possibly could, put on another black-gold pyjama with a silent sigh of disgust, switched off the light and went to bed.

And there he still was now, waiting for the small hours, which should be the best time for his task.

He let another hour pass before he quietly pulled the netbook away from the night stand, dived under the bed covers with it, checked that the sound system was indeed switched off and accessed the e-mail programme. As quick as lightening he sent all the data he'd copied earlier to one of his secured accounts. He suppressed another sigh, this time one of heartfelt relief. Thank heaven. No warning flash light, no fault alarm, the message had gone through smoothly and undetected.

Sherlock had never considered himself an IT-expert but he had a lot of experience with blockages and all kinds of spy-software. Being a brother of Mycroft Holmes made that experience an asset for survival.

Now all that was left to do was to delete all obvious traces of his espionage. For sure, he could do nothing to hide his actions from an expert examination of the hard disk or the registries but hopefully, as Moriarty had no idea what he'd been doing, there wouldn't be such an examination in the first place.

Subsequently a very gratified Detective emerged from the bed covers and, again for appearances' sake, played another 30 minutes with the virtual wand and broomstick before he switched off the netbook for good.

Almost happy, his damaged self-confidence pretty much restored, Sherlock curled up under the admittedly very soft and comfortable bed covers and closed his eyes.

Slowly he drifted off to sleep.

For an hour or so nothing could be heard but his soft, steady breathing and occasional stirring.

When the door banged against the wall and some men stormed into the room, the sudden ruckus took Sherlock completely by surprise. Before he could think of, let alone _do_, something, the dirty squad had grabbed his arms and legs and pressed him to the mattress, forcing him to hold still. Shocked as he was Sherlock didn't think of turning his head away, so they had no trouble to stuff a wad of cloth into his mouth until he choked.

Now Holmes was truly scared, especially when he felt the pyjama jacket being ripped off his back. "Do not struggle and you won't feel a bit" one of the men said.

What a comforting thought!

Expertly they tied Sherlock's hands behind his back as well as his ankles to the bed before something cold and wet dabbed his shoulder blade, leaving the skin numb. Still, Sherlock felt the the prick of the needle and he yelped under the gag with angry surprise although it didn't hurt.

The numbness spread on his back until he could no longer identify what they were doing. He only felt them fumbling around on his back for what seemed an eternity. Finally he couldn't stand it any more and he began to struggle. Someone shouted some filthy abuse and the offensive hands pressed harder.

Sherlock tensed all muscles – he always had been much stronger than he looked – and tried to rear up.

"This won't do you any good, stupid" someone whispered into his ear.

The last thing Sherlock felt before darkness swallowed him was the stench of the chloroform pressed to his face.

Above him, directed at his shoulders, back and tied wrists, cameras and computers made a precise and pin-sharp recording of the events and their results.

James almost crawled into the view-screen of his surveillance system. "You're sure it won't hurt?"

Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's most trusted associate for many years, smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry. We'll keep the wound anaesthetized for a while. Once that wears off he might feel a sting or two, but nothing more."

"But the tatoo cannot be removed later on?"

"No. The ink is special." Moran's smile turned into a cheeky smirk when he patted his boss and life-long friend on the shoulder. "Our Mr. Holmes will either accept a lovely epigraph of the name 'Voldemort' on his shoulder or a very big and probably ugly scar."

Again, James scrutinized the image on the monitor. "Gosh, his back sure looks a mess. A hundred lashes with a riding crop couldn't look much worse."

"It's partly his own blood from some cuts around the tatoo but mostly pig's blood as well as red and black ink" Moran retorted. "But I agree. It looks most convincing."

"Convincing enough for someone who's most probably familiar with experts' work of more than one secret service?" James still sounded a bit doubtful.

However, Sebastian was as self-assured as ever. "If he was your baby brother, wouldn't it convince you?"

Now James grinned too. "It would" he said. "It sure would." He turned to face Moran. "It's safe to say that this was a fright night for my guest, don't you think? Which just gives me another idea..."


	6. Fright day

**A/N: This is another chapter from Moriarty's POV. **

**Dark Magical Sorcres awaits your reviews impatiently!**

**6. Fright day**

Still chuckling, James Moriarty took the DVD with the copy of "Fright Night" from the cabinet.

It had been a most productive morning. Even though Sebastian had strongly advised against it, James had watched Mycroft stealthily take the pictures out of the Paddington Station locker where one of the Consultant Criminal's associates had deposited them earlier. Even from his hiding place Moriarty could see that the elder brother's face was a Study-in-Red-and-White, as the sight of his 'tortured' younger brother had done it's intended work.

James was most gratified that he'd been proven right. As a connoisseur of horror films and thrillers, his imagination could come up with scenarios persuasive and realistic enough to convince even an absolute expert like Mycroft Holmes. So much for Sebastian's constant bickering about his boss wasting potentially productive time on TV or big screens!

James was especially proud of the letter that had accompanied the photos of Sherlock's seemingly mangled body. Doubtlessly the self-styled head of British Secret Service would deliver all the most sensitive data Moriarty had asked for without hesitation now. After all he had to believe that otherwise these injuries would only be a slow start of what was in store for his baby brother.

The latest bet against Sebastian was that Mycroft Holmes would give up the data during the next 24 hours without so much as one refusal or counter move. Moran, on the other hand, believed that the man would try something before he surrendered. But after he'd seen Mycroft's reaction, James was confident that he wouldn't dare.

Well, wait and see. Sebastian would learn from his mistakes, once James had pocketed the 1 Pound the bet was about.

For the time being, James was completely content to have a quiet afternoon with his guest, watching telly.

Hence the DVD.

If Sherlock's attitude towards Harry Potter was a give-away, the Detective would loath this horror film even more. That promised to be fun. Not fair, perhaps, but fun, definitely. After all, fair was for fools.

However, James was in for a surprise.

At first everything went according to plan. When Moriarty opened the door, Sherlock was just waking up, as the injection that had followed the makeshift and therefore crude chloroforming was wearing off. So was, unfortunately, the local anaesthetic and Holmes felt the pain on his back. Which made, judging from his face, remembering and getting mad a bit too easy for Moriarty's taste, and briefly the Consulting Criminal regretted his order to untie his 'guest' immediately after last night's operation.

But, the tamer who shows fear will surely be kitty's dinner. "Wakey, wakey, sunshine. We'll just squeeze in a late breakfast and then it's scary movie time" James said gleefully.

Holmes did indeed get up, but only to corner his captor by pushing him roughly against the nearest wall. James read the other's expression effortlessly. "_Murder! And no __kidding_."

"What the hell did your men do to me?" Sherlock growled dangerously.

"Really, what a childish fuss about some minor scratches" James retorted derisively. "Why don't you go to the mirror and find out, my sweet?"

To James' own surprise, Sherlock did exactly that. With his usual cat-like agility he had no difficulty scrutinizing his own shoulder blade in the mirror. Impatiently he ripped off bandage and plaster. He looked, looked again and his eyes widened in shock. His lips said "_Voldemort_' without a sound. He paled, but not from fear, and his expression underwent the most fascinating change. His nostrils flared, then turned upwards, his mouth became a thin line and somehow his cheekbones seemed to grow through his skin.

Yep, Sherlock was definitely angry now.

"Nice art work, don't you think?" James dared to advance further into impending doom, although he began to feel uneasy. "It's very becoming."

No, that had not been the right thing to say. Perhaps James had wanted to pour oil on the waves, yet he had actually poured it into the fire.

Without another word Sherlock turned, jumped on the bed and towards his tormentor with two big, lightning-quick leaps. Before James could react, Holmes had him by the throat, both hands pressing mercilessly whilst he pinned the other once more to the wall.

James gasped nervously – or tried to. Air was a commodity in increasingly short supply all of a sudden. "Ah, ah, Sherlock, remember our deal" he pressed out hoarsely. "Wouldn't ….. ouch! Wouldn't want any harm come to your Johnny, would we."

Sherlock bit his lip but it was James who winced. Was that _blood_? How could the idiot bite down so hard?

The aggravated Detective let go. He stepped back, visibly trying to restrain himself. Admirable effort, from where James was standing.

"Yes, we _had_ a deal" Holmes said through gritted teeth. "So what are you trying to do to me... Jim?"

Moriarty heard him use his first name and instantly he was back at the top of the world. Say 'Johnny' and you've used the magic word. One had to mark that down to all eternity.

"But, dear Sherlock, you mustn't be _that_ forgetful" James tut-tutted cheekily. "As I said to you before, if Harry were to lose the game, Voldemort would claim him as his own. Well, as you are Harry and I am Voldemort..." Nonchalantly the criminal reached out and patted Sherlock's shoulder. The _uninjured_ one. Just to be on the safe side.

"This. Is. Not. One. Of. Your. Stupid. Fairy. Tales!" Holmes grumbled. Resentful. Dangerous. Not at all affectionate.

However, as his wrath had been proven impotent, Moriarty wasn't ruffled again, let alone intimidated. "Is it _not_?" he asked, his face and wide eyes an actor's study of innocent bewilderment. "I thought the rules are mine to make."

With an impatient huff, Sherlock turned away from him and walked back to the mirror. He still rubbed his shoulder unwittingly. "_You don't know what to do, do you_" Moriarty thought amusedly, and he decided to up the ante, just for the fun of it. He put on his best whining, girlish tone and said: "You know, I could make you happy, my dear, if only you'd allow me to. If you decide to stay I would treat you really nice. We could have so much fun together..."

As Moriarty had expected him to do, Holmes inhaled sharply. With forced calm he replied "As you said. We have a deal. One week, you said. Not a day longer."

"But think about it" James mewled, his merriment increasing by the second. "I'd love to keep you here. It's so very jolly to have you around. Can't you stay?"

"Why would I decide to stay? I hate it here. As I've already told you" Sherlock retorted firmly. "And there are people who are probably worried about me."

"_If you knew how right you are_" James thought, suppressing an exhilarated smile with all his might. "_Your brother Mycroft most certainly among them._"

Outwardly Moriarty let his shoulders sink in mock unhappiness. "If that's how you think...I guess I'll have to make the best of what I've got." He shook his head and sighed when he pushed himself away from the wall. "Anyway, time to watch 'fright night'. Perhaps it'll change your mind."

From Sherlock's face, the answer to that was eminent. "_Don't count on it_!"

James grinned furtively. Holmes was so very glad he'd changed the subject, he didn't even think of objecting to watching a movie he'd surely consider extremely stupid and boring. "You better get dressed, my dear, before you meet me downstairs. Otherwise my employees' sense of propriety might lead them to false assumptions. See you in ten minutes."

With that, James left the room, convinced that Sherlock would do exactly as he had been told.

In fact, it took the Detective somewhat longer to get ready for the show. James waited almost for half an hour in his small cinema hall that was his special pride. The spacious basement of his house had been completely built out and renovated into a recreation centre with a pool, a training room and, la piece de resistance, that very cinema hall with its comfy seats and state-of-the-art screen.

On Sherlock's entry, James held his breath. By no means Holmes had put on the attire his 'host' had had laid out for him. Instead he'd apparently found James' own bedroom and wardrobe, from which he'd chosen one of Moriarty's most expensive designer jeans and shirt, together with – unimaginable! – Moriarty's favourite pair of sneakers. The sleeves and pants were a bit too short for him, yet he seemed perfectly at ease with them. Somewhere with these clothes Sherlock must have found his mislaid self-confidence and independence, as he sat down at James' side casually, with the face of the cat that ate the canary. A canary in clotted cream, obviously.

James prided himself of being extremely quick witted and good at repartee, but the blunt outrage caught him off guard and, to his own substantial anger, he missed the right moment.

"Shall we begin?" Sherlock said with an impertinent grin. "By the way, I'm glad we could do without breakfast today. It's an obsession, all this eating, don't you think?"

Moriarty felt his eyes narrow. "_Just you wait_" he thought. "_That'll cost you. Just you wait_!" In his opinion, revenge was a dish best served hot, not cold, and he immediately knew what they would have for starters. "What makes you think I'd let you skip breakfast? Would reflect badly on my hospitality, wouldn't it."

Ten minutes later they were served breakfast at their seats, to Sherlock's unmistakable displeasure. But the Detective was a good sport, Moriarty had to grant him that, as he took his defeat with good grace - and a bowl of cornflakes.

But then a derisive side-glance grazed the Consulting Criminal and Moriarty's inner alarm-bells began to ring at top volume. An instant later he knew what his 'guest' was smirking about. Shirt and jeans sat comfortably on Holmes' body, in a perfect loose fit. The way they'd once fitted their owner, too. But these times had passed a while ago, a secret James so far had thought to be exclusively between him and his tailor. Now Sherlock's supercilious gaze disabused him.

So that was where the wind came from. Obsessed with eating, indeed.

But backing off was out of the question. So, as they ate, Moriarty talked on and on about what he would do for Sherlock, should the Detective stay with him. All Sherlock could do was nod at it but after a while, he wasn't really paying attention any more, which put James off in the end.

As soon as breakfast was finished, to Moriarty's secret relief, James instructed his 'guest' to focus his attention on the screen. "So, my dear, you're going to watch one of my absolute favourites with me" he said. "This film is a little scary but don't you worry, I will be there for you if you need me to hold your hand." As he had guessed, the sarcastic offer, silly and goofy as it was, went under Sherlock's skin. Holmes' jaws were grinding as if he was chewing granite. And apparently the stuff had a bad taste. Small wonder, as Sherlock _detested_ being touched.

James signalled one of his associates who started the DVD. Keeping his expectant gaze on the screen Moriarty leaned in to his 'guest' and saw, from the corner of his eye, that Holmes actually felt uncomfortably crowded.

When they were half way into the film, James grabbed Sherlock's hand and tried his best to hold on to it. "Oh, please don't be scared, sweetheart. Although I sure _would_ be scared if a vampire moved in next door," He squeezed Holmes' hand, which was a piece of artistic mastery as Sherlock did his best to get away. Instead, Moriarty pulled at the other's arm until he could effortlessly whisper into Holmes' ear. "But then again it could come in handy. I would ask the vampire to turn me and then I would turn you. We could spend eternity together – now there's a thought."

Sherlock managed to look livid and like vomiting at the same time.

Soon the plot on the screen reached a climax and James repeated the silent wrestling match. "Oh boy now he's going to get it" he said, referring to one of the action heroes on the screen. "I feel so sorry for him. Reminds me of myself as a teenager. I was exactly like him, the innocent victim of circumstances and other people's evil machinations..." He gave his, quite obviously, nauseous, companion the best puppy-like pleading look he had in his repertoire. The look that usually came together with the remark "I gave you my number. I thought you might call."

And quite obviously Sherlock _did_ remember that kind of look. James heard him mutter something and strained his ears to decipher the whisper in spite of the loud end credits of 'fright night'.

"Five days" Sherlock muttered to himself, with his free hand pressed to his forehead. "_Five_ days. God help me!"

"_No_" Moriarty thought, most gratified. "_Until I'm finished with you, no God will help you_." Then he leaned back in his seat and pondered the tremendously important question which other DVDs might be supportive to his planned educational programme for the presumptuous, spoilt brat at his side.

God, it would be a _hell_ of a week.


	7. Westwood suits and other unbecomings

**7****. Westwood suits and other unbecoming things**

Sherlock had guessed that the illicit borrowing of Moriarty's clothes would have consequences of the unpleasant sort. On an uncharacteristic emotional whim he'd done it all the same.

However, had he known what the consequences would be, he'd thought twice about the merit of so short-lived a triumph.

Today, standing in the parlour of London's presumably most posh and expensive tailor with a most amiable, high spirited Moriarty by his side, Holmes couldn't have felt more uncomfortable. To distract himself from what was happening to him he made a mental note to mark that tailor down for further investigation. It was obvious that James was very well known here – and much liked, impossible as that may seem – and there might well be some useful information to gather about the Consulting Criminal from the people of this shop. A fortiori as James had introduced his grouchy companion most enthusiastically as 'one of my oldest and closest friends'.

Unfortunately the mental note took Sherlock only a split second and subsequently he was back in the parlour, confronted with his most despicable image in the mirror and the – not even perfect manners and long-trained servility enabled the wretched man to hide it – virtually appalled face of the tailor behind him.

Holmes had to admit that the hapless tailor's disgust was well founded. The suit he was presently trying for fit was in short – a catastrophe. A Westwood model, for James preferred them, but dreadfully ill suited for Sherlock. His rigid composure, his whole type was the diametric opposite to the downright obtrusive laxity of the suit. In addition, the buff colour Moriarty had chosen reminded Sherlock strongly of the last time he'd had the runs. A high-collared shirt in baby-pink did nothing to mellow the gruesome results of that choice. As to the poisonously green tie around Sherlock's neck and what it did to the skin colour of his face – better to neither talk nor think about it.

But then, greenish cheeks at least were an expression of what the unfortunate Detective felt in that moment.

Unfortunate also that James just gave him no chance to do anything about it. From second one in the shop, the Consulting Criminal had done all the talking. Sherlock prided himself on his own ability to speak like a machine gun fires, but this feat was mostly reserved for delivering facts and theories – in one sentence: For talking sense.

James' natural ability to shower his unlucky counterparts with rapids of _non_sense exceeded anything Sherlock had to offer. It had taken Moriarty less than two minutes to utterly convince the aghast tailor that this kind of clothes was perfectly to Holmes' taste, and, chattering away most sweetly and with perfect innocence, he'd managed to imply that he deplored his 'old friend's' lack of taste tremendously, as well as 'his best pal's' obvious colour-blindness.

Holmes had been horrified to hear James drone on and on, every inch the well-meaning friend of a very doubtable character.

"What shall I do?" Moriarty had begun, and the rest had been equally misleading. This man, his closest companion of many years, Sherlock Holmes, was a darling, a teddy-bear but when he was crossed or criticized he would have one of his tantrums and he might have a fit, as he was so very, very sensitive and prickly, like a child actually, and so one better played along with his moods, after all, what was a bad taste in clothes in a man with so many most endearing qualities?

A few minutes under this constant stream of highly abusive and offending 'revelations' about his personality, covered with sweet, creamy rubbish talk, and Sherlock was only a hair's breadth away from believing himself that he was an absolute, childish nit-wit idiot.

And yet, when James made the meanwhile ghostly pale tailor bring another set of clothes – this time in white (the suit), lilac (the shirt) and orange (the tie), Sherlock brought his foot down. It was a necessity of pure, immediate survival. He just out-screamed Moriarty and for once Holmes gave a shit about how sissified and shrill his usually full and deep voice sounded once it reached a certain volume.

"I'm quite satisfied" he told – or rather roared – the tailor "thank you ever so much. I take them all. Actually, the thought strikes me – these suits are so wonderful - I take one dozen of each, two dozens of the pink shirts, two dozens of the lilac ones and a dozen of the ties each, together with thirty pairs of socks, light blue I should think. I'm sure you'll guarantee the highest hand-tailored quality and of course, the best available material for each item. You can put the bill on Mr. Moriarty's account. Isn't it perfectly sweet of my old friend James to give me such a present? He's always so very considerate."

When Holmes came to the end of his little speech, propounded with the greatest courtesy and an Oxford English so supercilious that it would have overtaxed an arch-angle's patient indulgence, he could speak at a normal volume again. James had fallen silent somewhere on the road. He was a rich man, a very rich man, but _this_ bill…and for clothes, heaps and heaps of clothes nobody, absolutely nobody could ever wear, not even on Halloween…. It made one think.

The tailor, on the other hand, was visibly drunk with joy. ₤ 1.000 for every suit at least, perhaps more because of the special colours and material ordered, ₤ 250 for every shirt and so on and so on – a productive morning indeed! Who cared that it was a crude madman's order? A businessman had to consider his costs and profits first of all. He began bowing left and right, scraping with his feet like an excited turkey and Sherlock had the weird impression that he could _hear_ the man's thoughts as clearly as if he'd shouted them to anyone present.

Equally clear was what his esteemed captor thought of his 'guest's' latest escapade. "_Come on_ "Sherlock thought "_say it_. _Spit it out before it suffocates you. Countermand this order, say you won't pay. Make my day by making a complete fool of yourself_!"

To Sherlock's profound disappointment, Moriarty drew one deep breath and then he smiled, albeit a bit wavering. "I trust you can deliver the first set by the end of the week?" he asked the tailor who confirmed this joyfully. "Then my friend can make his journey home in this suit" James continued, his eyes on Sherlock's face. "It'll make the arrival at his home address so much pleasanter." He gritted his teeth as he finalised "send the rest of the order to the usual address. I'll pay for everything."

Only now the tailor had the distinct feeling that something was going on between his two customers, something he didn't quite understand. The uncomfortable feeling grew decisively when Sherlock now launched a counter attack, grinning like a Cheshire cat. "By the way, dear James, haven't you forgotten one little detail? The necessity to buy new clothes for you? You know: That little spare tyre on your hips and your lovely new embonpoint?"

Moriarty's glare won an additional murderous quality and his carefully groomed façade slipped a bit more. "We can take care of that elsewhere, dear Sherlock. Perhaps a bit of exercise in my gym would do both of us a world of good. I wonder what I'm going to use for a punching bag!"

"You could always use an old clothes bag, standing on the ground so that even you can't miss it."

"I think I'll prefer an emaciated looking scarecrow, hanging from the ceiling by the neck."

"Anyone particular coming to mind?"

"Indeed. I got one from Baker Street recently."

"I'd be careful if I were you. These models are known to be obstinate."

They glared at each other and the tailor had a terrifying vision of most undignified bloodshed in the middle of his distinguished parlour. Much sobered from his former enthusiasm he was - great business and benefit put aside - glad to see the two men leave.

Once outside, Sherlock decided to gloat a little more for his own amusement, thereby taking the aggressive tone out of the conversation. This primitive exchange of physical threats was no fun at all and after his ordeal he _needed_ fun. "Dearest James, I owe you an apology" he said "you were absolutely right, that was much better than watching another of your DVDs. Although it _was_ a bit vampire-ish, this drain on your finances."

"I'll hear you talk otherwise once I send you home in these clothes" a tight-lipped James replied. "Think of what dear Johnny will say. And sweet shanks will undoubtedly love them."

The remark hit a nerve in Holmes. "If you think I'll show myself dressed like that to my brother, think again!"

"You will wear these things on the day of all days, believe me."

"You can't make me."

"I can and I will."

"You're welcome to try."

"12 men between you and the exit, remember, Sherlock? I admit you're good, but you're not good enough to beat a dozen men."

Meanwhile they'd reached the roofed passageway to the confined parking space that allowed discreet access to the tailor's shop. Some of the customers preferred it that way, as, alas, not all of them had acquired the necessary wealth by lawful means. By right, a lot of the money spend here would've been due to somebody else - most frequently to the British Exchequer.

As pre-concerted Moriarty and Sherlock met with Moran and today's 'guard of honour', two walking wardrobes employed for their oversized muscles, not their undersized brains. James cocked his head angrily and at once Holmes found himself in their grip, feeling handcuffs closing around the wrists on his back. "What's the matter James? Lost your sense of humour?"

"I just thought I'd give you a foretaste of what's in store for you if you go on like that" James retorted. "By the way, I'm fed up with your clever remarks!"

Although Holmes could easily deduce what that meant he had no chance to hinder the brutes when they forced a gag into his mouth and pulled it tight. Moran took him by the arm and Sherlock flinched as he felt the man's foul breath on his ear. "If you want to spare yourself the trouble of being chloroformed, you'll walk to the car, nicely and quietly, understood?"

Thinking of his secret plan to destroy Moriarty, Moran and their organisation Holmes didn't offer resistance when he was pushed to the waiting limousine and forced by a gun's muzzle pressing into his spine to enter it, with Moran and Moriarty taking the other seats. As soon as the doors closed the chauffeur drove off, leaving the 'guards' to follow as best they could. James loved going in convoys, he hardly ever allowed his men to ride in the same car with him.

Once under way, Holmes relaxed. The car's windows were opaque from both sides, but even without seeing the outside world he'd formed a pretty good idea of the starting point of their little journey – Moriarty's home. As he couldn't do anything else right now he could as well concentrate on verifying this impression on their way back.

As if he'd read Sherlock's mind, Moran huffed irritably. "We should sedate him anyway, James. No use taking avoidable risks."

Astonishingly enough, James had regained much of his former good mood. "Leave him alone. He's been through a lot today." Then he started a lengthy, in his and Moran's opinions very comical narrative of Holmes' behaviour at the tailor's shop which took almost as long as the trip home. Forced as he was to silently listen to the cattish banter, Sherlock let his thoughts flow and tuned just out of the situation.

He'd not been surprised by Moriarty's high spirits had he known what had happened in the tailor's backyard, where just now Mycroft tried to regain his composure.

The elder Holmes was much shaken by what he had witnessed. True enough, his brother's captors had kept their word to prove that Sherlock was alive and - more or less- still in one piece. But to see the little one like that, bound and gagged, held at gunpoint…. And he hadn't even struggled. What _had_ they done to him?

Mycroft Holmes wasn't in the least squeamish when it came to the enemies of Queen and country whom he so frequently brought to justice – or what he personally considered to be justice. However, seeing his younger brother in such dire straits proved to be a quite different experience. Much more upsetting, much less uplifting, so to speak.

But even so, the peculiar coincidence rattled him that the place these vicious kidnappers had chosen for their detestable demonstration was the backyard of his own tailor. Since pre-history all of Mycroft's clothes were made here. He had, for a time, tried to interest Sherlock in gentleman's fashion, but of course that had been whilst he'd still believed in bringing his brother into some kind of regular life, with an office job, some nice friends and a pension scheme.

Oh far away past times in which Mycroft Holmes had still been naïve enough to harbour such outrageous, out-of-the-question schemes. He'd rather could talk a creationist into believing in evolution than his brother out of his bohemian life-style.

No chance then for Sherlock to remember his brother's tailor. Question was, did his captors know? Admittedly the place was well chosen, no one could see the yard from the outside, no one would wonder why a luxury car entered this special place and, confined as the place was, Sherlock would not come far before he was recaptured, should he try to run. Even if he screamed the traffic outside would swallow the sound, most likely.

Mycroft's formidable instincts and experience turned on the red-alert. Only the tailor himself would mind a car such as this coming to his premises, as long as it was an unfamiliar one. He was in the habit of monitoring the arrivals and departures of cars via an external, discreetly hidden camera the existence of which was known to a mere handful of people. One of them was the man who'd given the security camera to him.

Acting on a hunch, Mycroft turned round and went into the shop. An absurd idea, a kidnapped young man and his captors ordering some clothes but, as little brother used to say, if you've eliminated the impossible….

The tailor greeted one of his most secretive but also most distinguished customers warmly. "Mr. Holmes! What can I do for you, Sir? What a shame that you've missed your brother, can't be more than twenty minutes that he and his friend left me."

"My brother? He was here?" asked Mycroft, as casually as he could.

The tailor blushed suddenly. "Oh please, forgive my faux pas Mr. Holmes. I'm not usually in the habit of talking about my customers. It's just that the young man seemed …" he searched for words to tactfully describe the indescribable (these colours, these gruesome style, oh God, oh God, oh God)"…. A bit troubled to me, Sir. And upon occasion you had told me about your younger brother Sherlock and as he's become famous now, what with his doctor friend's blog…."

The tailor shrank under the ice-cold stare. He clapped his mouth shut as if he'd never open it again.

"What did my brother order?" snapped Mycroft.

The tailor shrank even more and went through all kinds of contortions. "I'm so sorry, Sir" the wretched man whispered "so very sorry, but…. No doubt Mr. Sherlock is a busy man and these young men nowadays prefer all kinds of style, I'm an old man, sometimes it's hard for me to follow the latest developments…."

His head as red as a lantern he presented the fitting sets Sherlock had tried on to Mycroft.

The elder Holmes backed away as if bitten by a snake. "Good heavens! What is _that_?"

"Perhaps it wasn't your brother's idea after all" the tailor dared to chime in, if meekly. "There was this friend of him, you see, a very good customer of my firm and maybe it was a kind of practical joke….."

"Who is this friend? Where does he live?"

Now the tailor lifted his chin and rose to his full height. Which was, unfortunately, more than a head shorter than Mycroft's. "I beg your pardon Sir. That information is private."

Holmes produced his mobile from his pocket and showed it to the other. "You've one minute left and after that tax investigation, Scotland Yard, and every Secret Service the UK has got will not stop swarming your premises, as well as your home, until they've found something in your books, your records, your bank accounts, your tax declarations and most of all your customer database."

"Sir…. Mr. Mycroft… surely you wouldn't…. I considered you a friend….."

Mycroft put the squeeze on him even harder. "We both know you've got some very nasty people among your customers. They value their privacy above all else, especially as their living in London is completely illegal. By the way, are you paying taxes on your little side business in over-expensive evening dresses? Men do not buy those dresses for their wives, do they. Many Ladies would be much interested in who bought what from you, and for whom."

"Sir, I beg you… my good name…. my firm…..my first assistant's wife is pregnant again…"

"For God's sake, the man is gay. The woman he lives with is his sister and she's an old maid. Now, for the very last time: Who was the man with my brother?"

"James…. James Moriarty, Sir. He lives in Chelsea." Defiantly the tailor added "a man of excellent taste, a true gentleman. A benefactor who always give money to charity."

"What's he doing for a living? And don't tell me you do not know."

"He… He seems to be a kind of broker, Sir. He arranges deals, conveys ideas as far as I know. Trades information….I'm sure it's all absolutely legal and honourable….."

Mycroft no longer listened. "_Information_" he thought. "_Yes, that's what he would do, trade the information he squeezed out of me for Sherlock's sake to others_." There was a lot of money to be made in information, nobody knew that better than the uncrowned King of British Intelligence.

And yet it was confusing.

Briefly the thought that Sherlock might be in league with the criminal flickered through Mycroft's mind but he dismissed it at once. No, _one_ look at the most absurd set of clothes Holmes had ever seen in his life and he knew his brother had been forced into this. Sherlock voluntarily wearing a lilac shirt and orange tie? It beggared belief.

"I need Moriarty's exact contact data. You will not speak to anyone about my visit here today, you will not inform Moriarty about it, or this will be your very last day as a business man in this country or any other, from now until Kingdom come, understood?"

Ten minutes later Mycroft was on his way. A few phone calls and his staff at the Secret Service booted their computers. Holmes himself arrived at his flat, shook of his shoes – he _hated_ shoes – and went to his laptop. Ruthlessly he broke into every account Sherlock had ever opened.

It took the elder brother half an hour to find the data Sherlock had stolen from Moriarty's databases. For some weird reason the little one had used the alias 'Harry Potter' for this transaction.

"Little brother, what mess have you brought yourself into this time" Mycroft muttered. "And why the hell is it always me who has to drag you out of it?"

Meanwhile information about James Moriarty came pouring in from Mycroft's office. All harmless, all inconspicuous, no clues, no hints, an impermeable façade of perfect mediocrity. Except for two things: The man was unbelievably wealthy by all accounts but he had, for a few months, worked as an underpaid IT-expert at, of all places, St Bartholomew's Hospital. And a certain DI Lestrade had mentioned the name 'Moriarty', if only as a marginal, in his report on a case of a faked Vermeer picture.

Sighing desperately Mycroft put on his shoes once more and went out into a cold and raining night to pay Lestrade a visit. He knew him as the man Sherlock worked with, rather than with his own brother.

Fleetingly Mycroft pondered a visit at 121B Baker Street, where John Watson was doubtlessly sick with worry about his vanished flatmate. But the good doctor, intransigent when it came to sharing information about his life with Sherlock at the best of times, was also sick with the flue and the mere thought of catching it sent shudders down Mycroft's spine.

Which reminded him.

Leg work! How could anyone with a pathological distaste for wearing tight shoes be forced to do so much leg work? Wasn't it enough that he had to wear the damn things in his office hours?

Little brother, as soon as I've got you safely back, I'll skin you alive, I swear it.


	8. Embarrassingly rescued

**8. Embarrassingly rescued**

When the car rolled towards the garage James took pity with his 'guest' and a grumbling Moran freed Sherlock from handcuffs and gag, a favour which the Detective, to Moriarty's amusement, accepted without the slightest sign of gratitude.

As soon as the door was opened Holmes virtually shot out of the car as if he was escaping hell itself. It was all James could do to dive out after him, a hopelessly too slow Moran nagging something unintelligible in his back.

Well, what of it. Surely the elder Holmes was slowly cooking in his own steam by now, having seen little brother's predicament with his own eyes. James was therefore sure to have a call from Mycroft in the next few hours, telling him that the deal he'd suggested was perfect. Sebastian would lose another bet. Which meant Moriarty's second-in-command would be grumpy for at least one more week. The Colonel was a bad loser; it was part of his nature.

Sherlock, James admitted inwardly to himself, was classier by far. Credit where credit was due Holmes had put up a good show at the tailor's, paying James back in his own coin. Nevertheless, there had to be some punishment for Sherlock's insolence, if only for principle's sake. £ 10.000 or more the absurd order would cost his host, so James thought he might as well have some reward for it.

Knowing full well that Holmes felt much more like vomiting than like eating right now, James stopped him at the first step of the first floor stair. "You're in such haste to get ready for dinner, my dear. If I'd known you're _that_ fond of Bangers 'n Mash, I'd ordered it every night."

Sherlock's brain working on the unwelcome news was a visible process and James smirked. "_Yes my dear, before you had John Watson for a chronicler to puff up your overgrown ego even more for pity's sake, __**you**__ published a few case studies on your website. To solve an early case you even ate Bangers 'n Mash once, although you absolutely loath the stuff. Oh Sherlock, there's not one word on your site I haven't read. You shouldn't have boasted like that, it wasn't wise_."

"Would it help if I said that my appetite's deserted me?" Sherlock asked, with forced self-control.

"Not at all my dear. You must eat. You're too skinny as it is! Look at me, that's how a gentleman is expected to cut a figure."

Contemptuously Sherlock's gaze wandered over James' belly. "If you call _that_ a figure…."

It was the hint James had been waiting for. He pulled out the package he'd so far hid behind his back and threw it to Holmes. "Oh, and Sherlock my pet, don't forget to wear this new suit. It's the one you tried first; I took it so that you can wear it tonight. Shirt and tie and all."

"NO way!"

"What did I tell you about you not refusing anything I give to you?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. Judging from his face he thought first about a fitting reply, second he thought better of it. With an angry look he walked upstairs, but with the despised package firmly in his hands.

James, who'd been sure he'd get the package thrown into his face, frowned. It was great fun teasing his 'guest', but sometimes it was peculiar that Holmes should allow it, just like that. "_What are you up to, my wildcat? There must've been some mistake I've made, otherwise you'd never play ball._"

But then Moriarty shook off the dreary thoughts. Speculations without facts were Moran's domain.

When Sherlock appeared for dinner James took an effort to keep his face straight. Goodness, no, the suit was an abomination. There was no other word for it. Moriarty found he hadn't the heart to insist when Holmes took off the jacket and threw it into a corner. "Too hot, my dear?"

"Yes" was Holmes' tight-lipped reply.

"I thought that much. Your cheeks are red!"

Sherlock grabbed the fork hard enough to let his knuckles stuck out white, but he didn't say anything.

"Perhaps the clothes are a bit loose right now, but if you eat properly you'll grow into them, no doubt" James said fatherly.

"Perhaps they're your size rather than mine."

"My thoughts exactly. Now eat!"

With an expression fit for a state burial Sherlock began stuffing his face, if only for a few minutes. Until his stomach visibly – and audibly – revolted.

Again Moriarty was amused, touched and bewildered, all at once. Why was the wildcat so very tame? What was he waiting for? He couldn't possibly know his brother was involved and, under their original agreement, he had to spend another three and a half days in Moriarty's company.

All this teasing, this being toyed with _had_ to drive Sherlock mad. Unconventional he sure was, spleeny perhaps, therefore used to being misunderstood, insulted even. And yet Holmes was as proud as Satan himself when touched on a spot _he_ thought sensitive. So why the restraint? Did he really think every offence James might take would result in John Watson's premature demise? Was that it?

"Listen, Sherlock …." Moriarty suddenly heard himself say "…. about your doctor friend…." James had had no evil intentions. Instead he'd wanted to say – and to his own considerable surprise - that there was no need to worry.

Yet Sherlock's look of utter distrust, of loathing actually, silenced him.

It reminded him that he had been about to forget who he was and who his dinner guest was.

This was a game. And from where Sherlock sat he was a pawn in a captor's hand, not a player. Forced to stay, not willing to. Holmes would fight to keep his face as best he could – or as best he dared, more likely – and then he would go, as soon as possible, as far away as possible. And, if possible, he would forget this week. Delete it from his memory.

For this was purely James Moriarty's party. His miserable pretence of having company for dinner. Company who wouldn't ask for a paycheque later on.

All of a sudden James felt that appetite had now deserted _him_. "If you've finished you can go" he said hoarsely and a quick shove of a chair and some hasty steps out were his reward.

It took some swallowing.

However, some 30 minutes later Moriarty finished his own dinner with what appeared to be a returned healthy appetite. After all he was used to eating alone. No use pretending otherwise.

When all was said and done, this interlude, pleasant as it was, was nothing but another business deal.

After dinner James took a seat in his library, waiting for his laptop to show him that Mycroft had left a message for little brother's brutal kidnappers. It was a secure line, not even MI 6 or 5 or 3 3/4 would be able to trace it back. Jim Moriarty was, after all, a computer expert. The international hacker community had no idea how very familiar they were with the criminal mastermind. Or, rather, _he_ with _them_ and their little secrets. For they had some. The more they cried for transparency in others the more they tried to hide their own dark spots to perfection.

While James waited he mused on the last few days. It was more than fun, having an intellectual equal – well, _almost_ equal – around. All right, most of their bantering was a bit childish but it was what … friends would do. Or brothers. Yes, it must be a bit like that, having a brother. Moriarty felt a bit melancholic again when he thought about it. "_I know eventually I will have to let him go. But then loneliness will start again. Sherlock just doesn't know how lucky he is, lucky to have a family. I was an only child; I had no one to look out for me_."

It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair. Jim knew he would never have what Sherlock had. A brother. Some real friends who even put up with the Detectives' insufferable moods and arrogance. And Sherlock obviously didn't even _like_ Mycroft.

When James pondered the injustice of it all, his face was flushed red. He wanted what Holmes had but didn't appreciate. For sure, Moran was good company but he wasn't enough. Not always. Not for everything.

Well, at least the Holmes brothers would pay for their privileges this time. For once the world would not stop and give way to the great men. This time, the last laugh would be somebody else's.

Right on cue the laptop showed an incoming call. James took it eagerly. The scrambler was in place; Mycroft's screen would show nothing but junk.

"Hello sweet shanks" Moriarty said calmly, knowing that his counterpart would hear the absurd nickname spoken by a very sensual female voice. "Glad to have seen your little brother in one piece?"

"You said you'd let him go for the price of some information about the people and enterprises you named?" Mycroft came directly to the point. It was, in James' opinion, one of his less endearing qualities. It needed talking with the younger brother if one appreciated a good repartee.

"As there can be no doubt that we've got your brother I take it you've got the information?"

"I'm ready for the exchange when you are."

"No direct exchange, I'm afraid. You, Sir, are … a bit too well connected in the security business for my companions' taste. You'll put the information where I told you. We check them; if they're all you claim they are, Sherlock will come back to you, bright eyed and bushy tailed, come Sunday morning. If they are not, or if you think us foolish enough to fall for one of your childish little booby-traps …. must I go on, Mr. Holmes?"

"You must indeed take me for a fool if you think I'll give you the ransom bona fide. My brother against a memory stick, that's the deal."

"Let me be blunt, Mr. Holmes, so that no misunderstanding is possible. My companions and I have many lucrative business deals under way but you have only got one brother. Tonight, during the next few minutes, you'll deposit the information in the cloud or you are an only child. And I promise you, you'll hear your brother scream before he dies!"

With that, James terminated the connection. Moran entered the room with a questioning face. "Mycroft?"

James nodded. "Package dispatched I think" he replied. "Just give it five minutes, then we'll check it. Should make millions as soon as we've told some high and mighty people what we know about them. A most lucrative evening."

"For you, perhaps" Sebastian retorted sourly whilst he took a pound from his purse and gave it to his boss. "Not for me."

James laughed, a bit sad as he remembered his former thoughts. Moran was good, as an aide, as second in command, as an associate. But not good enough. Not as a friend. "You'll live, Sebastian. Another day another pound, eh?"

Meanwhile Moran watched James' nimble fingers fly over the keyboard, something he always admired. The Colonel had broad, strong hands. He was strong, resolved, ruthless. For elegance, subtleness and intelligence he had a boss. They both knew it and, as far as Moran was concerned, there was no problem with that.

Moriarty quickly checked the preliminary account he'd created in a much overrun cloud based on a much overrun server which actually stood in Argentina. The account would delete itself in the next six hours, leaving the head of British Intelligence with the uncomfortable task of tracing the virtual movements of his opponents in a country and firm who both still remembered the Falkland Wars not too friendly. And the provider _would_ register Mycroft's efforts because someone in Chelsea would tell him what to look for.

It would take Mycroft time; and time was of the essence in the information business, especially since IT had taken over. When the elder Holmes had finally found all there was to find, all the laboriously uncovered traces would be as cold as dead mutton.

"Looks fine to me" Sebastian chimed in, reading the files over Moriarty's shoulder. He hissed through his teeth when he found an especially juicy piece of news about the love-life of an oil company big-wig. "The shares he rests his ass on belong to his wife?" he asked and James nodded, grinning like a Cheshire cat. "They do, poor man."

"You're sure the data isn't booby-trapped?"

James shrugged. "We'll know in a minute! Yet he could've created the most ingenious male ware of all, he could damage the cloud, he could force me to give up a few aliases and accounts but not more. Most of all, he can't find us. Which means, he can't find his little brother. Which means, he won't dare try anything stupid."

In this very minute, the door bell rang.

With an angry frown Moran looked out of the window before he darted round to his boss. "Police" he said. "Lestrade!"

"What the hell …." Moriarty said, jumping out of his seat and to the door. Quickly he glanced upstairs. But all was quiet. Apparently Sherlock hadn't heard the bell.

"Get him, Sebastian. Keep him quiet!"

It was all Moran needed to dash upstairs and round the corner of the gallery to where the guestrooms were.

"What can I do for you, Detective Inspector?" James said a minute later after a look at Lestrade's ID.

"A theft has been reported" replied Lestrade. "An expensive suit. From a tailor's shop."

"I do beg your pardon?" was all James could stammer. For the very first time in his adult life, he was utterly and completely dumbfounded. He'd thought of each and everything that could possibly go wrong but this… _this_….

This couldn't be true. This was just too stupid, too absurd to be true. Sure enough, he'd just grabbed the suit and shirt on his way out, but with his account in this shop, where was the problem?

"You will forgive me, Sir. I'm sure it's a beastly misunderstanding but right now…." and with that Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson had successfully entered the house. The Detective Inspector waved a search warrant in front of James' eyes whilst his two assistants went about their work, Sally walking towards the library, Anderson heading upstairs.

Upstairs!

The one word brought James back to earth.

"Inspector, you have no idea with whom you're dealing here. Your superiors will hear of this. Come down, man, you're not going to molest my guests!"

Apparently James' show of strength had worked, for Lestrade signalled his aide to come down again and Anderson obeyed instantly.

Meanwhile four of James' bulky associates had turned up, the man who'd help to bring Sherlock out of the sewage water systems a few days ago in the lead. "Do you need us, Sir?" he asked Moriarty who declined the thinly veiled offer of violent assistance with a brisk shake of his head.

"I know your faces from the newspapers" James told Lestrade coldly. "You're with the homicide squad. What are you investigating a petty theft for?"

"We've been transferred for disciplinary reasons" was the laconic reply. "Nothing that concerns you, by the way. What's that?" The latter referred to the jacket Sally Donovan had found in the dining room. She looked so very much like a gratified dachshund bringing in the prey that James actually fought the idiotic urge to say "good doggy."

"The stolen jacket, Detective Inspector" she reported smartly, holding the corpus delicti high up in the air.

For a brief moment Lestrade looked as if he'd liked to laugh his head off, here and now. "Good work" he then managed to get out. "Carry on!"

"Sir?" the unfortunate policewoman asked.

"The pants, girl. Where there is a jacket there should be pants, should there not" the inspector pressed out, clearly at the end of his self-restraint.

The woman beamed, obviously happy that she'd finally gathered what this was about. "Yes Sir, with someone in them I shouldn't wonder!"

The same instant James wanted to slap and kick himself where it hurt most. "_A most distinguished gentleman from Whitehall, this customer_" the tailor was saying in his mind. "_Very discreet though_. _Almost secretive in his ways._"

Mycroft!

Mycroft Holmes and James Moriarty had the same tailor!

"Wilkins, show these gentlemen out!" James ordered and his associate didn't ask back.

Neither Lestrade nor his two helpmates struggled when they were "shown" the way out. "This will have consequences" was all the DI said. "This obstinacy is doing you no good!"

"My lawyers will contact your Superintendent in the morning. Good day to you, Inspector!"

Wilkins let go of the three when they approached the door. As they didn't resist – why aggravate the coppers any further? After all, boss always said to keep a low profile with the force.

Quick as lightening Anderson dashed sideward, turned and ran upstairs before Wilkins – strong, heavy but a bit slow – understood what was going on.

James, already on his way back to the library to switch off his laptop – one never knew with _such_ data on the screen - was too far away to be of any practical use. "Inspector, I protest. You're in hot water up to your neck as it is, my lawyers will …"

But it was already too late.

There was a short but violent commotion upstairs and then Anderson appeared on the gallery, a struggling (_why on earth struggling?_ James wondered) Sherlock in his arms immediately followed by a fuming Moran. "Found him" the pathologist screamed with unmistakable triumph. "He seems to be all right…." Belatedly he added, just on a third or fourth thought, "I mean he's got the pants…."

"Take your hands off me" Holmes said, breaking free of the pathologist's grip.

"Mr. Holmes, you're under arrest for theft of a suit" Lestrade declared firmly. "Come down!"

Sherlock looked quickly from Moriarty to the DI and back. "James please, I had nothing to do with this…."

"_There's not much you'd not do for your beloved doctor_" James thought bitterly as he realized why Holmes was as white as chalk when he should have been overjoyed. "_Why him, you brilliant idiot? Why not me?_"

"Forget it Sherlock" Moriarty said. "Thanks for the visit. We must repeat that some day. Off you go!"

Slowly followed by a wary pathologist, Holmes was down the stairs in a few big strides. "You're sure?"

"All is safe" James said disdainfully "No need to worry about your pet_s_!"

Sherlock registered the last 's' and after a second his eyes widened a bit.

Moriarty smiled "_I knew you'd understand_" he thought "_clever you."_

"Is it real?" Sherlock asked softly. "What you've got, is it the real thing?"

"Real enough to break the hangman's neck if its source were to be exposed!" James replied sternly, but with a cocked brow. "The things we do for family."

Holmes hesitated, staring at his opponent. Then he shrugged. "They say some would kill to protect their own!"

"Indeed. Or lose their career. Go to prison. Even for a threat that was only imagined."

"See you later then?"

"Some day, rest assured. Some day we _will_ meet again!"

Sherlock had thrown the gauntlet and James had picked it up. Challenge made, challenge accepted; neither of them needed any more words for it.

Holmes followed Sally and Anderson out while Moriarty held back an enraged Colonel. "We still have some packing to do, Sebastian."

"24 hours" Lestrade said. "Out of England, out of Europe. You come back you're history, no price to high. If I were you I'd avoid Baker Street on my way out. Good day Mr. Moriarty."

Moran stared after the leaving inspector's back and his lower jaw hung open. "He let's us go? But his idiot friend found me with one hand over Holmes' mouth and the other pressing a gun against his neck. If I hadn't thought of you down here I'd pulled the trigger!"

"It was kind of you, Sebastian."

"To be a fool?"

"To think of me. And it isn't Lestrade who lets us go."

"It's not?"

"No, Sebastian, it is not. It is Mycroft Holmes. Which can only mean one thing…."

"Which is?"

"Which is that the information Mycroft gave us is valid. The foremost champion of British Intelligence has become a traitor for his little brother's sake!" Moriarty grinned maliciously. "Maybe being an only child has its advantages after all."


	9. Caught with pants down

**9. The feeling of being caught with one's pants down**

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Lestrade? I was in the middle of a covert investigation when this bumbling idiot walked in and dragged me out!"

Sherlock, fidgeting about in the back of the car, was furious where he should have been grateful, at least in Anderson's opinion. "Covert my foot, without me that bloke would've blown your head off any moment."

"Without you he'd never pulled that weapon in the first place!"

"Now listen to me, freak….."

"For God's sake tell him to be quiet Lestrade or I don't know what I'm going to do!"

This did it. The car came to an abrupt halt that almost sent the two squabbling backbenchers through the windscreen when the DI jammed on the brakes. "_Shut up_, both of you. Or you can _walk_ home!"

Donovan, besides Lestrade the only one who'd used her safety belt according to regulations, was unruffled by the sudden manoeuvre. As the two on the back seat were silent – doubtlessly due to the fact that the weather wasn't very nice and they were _very_ far away from urban civilization – she put her two cents in. "I've always said freak's not worth rescuing."

"That applies to you too!" Lestrade growled at her. "You make me sick, all of you. Just in case you're interested Sherlock, Mycroft has risked his hide to get you out and as to your investigation, the "evidence" you mailed to yourself is a lot of crap. You've made a complete asshole of yourself, so if I were you, I'd zip it!"

Sherlock paled, partly with anger but also with embarrassment. So Voldemort had had his way with Harry Potter once more! It had always been a possibility but even so the Detective had hoped... What made things much worse was that Mycroft had thought it necessary to let Lestrade in on everything. Come to think of it – how much of this private Holmes disaster had the inspector revealed to his two idiotic aides?

It was an unfamiliar, actually an unique impression in the younger Holmes' life but he just wished he _was_ Harry Potter, with a broomstick to ride away on or at least a conjurer's wand to create a deep hole in which he could vanish, here and now. Possibly before he had to travel on to London in _this_ special company. Most surely before he had to face his elder brother about this whole messy affair.

Or John Watson.

Oh God, John! Who gave a damn about Moriarty's reassurances that his flatmate would be safe? After all, the criminal had said it himself: "_I'm soooooo changeable_."

"Lestrade, John needs protection. He has no idea…."

"And you would like to keep it that way I shouldn't wonder" the DI snapped back. "We're not the total dimwits you take us for, you know? 221B Baker Street is under police protection since the moment Mycroft first spoke with me. And no, nobody told John Watson nothing about anything, as always. Happy?"

"Yes" confirmed Sherlock grudgingly. The "_Thanks_" that was already on his lips he swallowed. Perhaps he'd say it to Mycroft. _If_ elder brother would talk to him at all, ever again. Funny that there had been times when he'd wished Mycroft would get lost at sea or something. Suddenly the perspective wasn't so very enticing any more.

All in all, Sherlock decided that he'd had better days. Or weeks. At a complete loss as to what to say he put his best enigmatic face on and said nothing at all.

Which, by all appearances, was perfectly fine with the unnerved DI.

Donovan's gaze wandered from one to the other, grazed the sulking pathologist and came back to her boss. "Can we go on now? Please?"

Lestrade nodded. Just once and very briskly. But he started the car and they were on their way again.

Naturally the peace didn't last long. "Anybody to tell me what this talk of "Mycroft" was all about?" Anderson complained.

"_NO!_" Three voices shouted it and through all the ringing in his ears the pathologist thought that maybe this question had been a very bad idea. He returned to silent sulking which did wonders for the emotional climate inside the car.

Sherlock breathed easier after that. At least he could be sure that "Anderson-wouldn't-work-with-me-and-thank-heaven-for-that" was as clueless as always about anything. Apparently the DI had thought of protecting the Consulting Detective's reputation even if elder brother had not. Good old Lestrade, he wasn't so bad after all. Not that sherlock would ever tell him that.

Neither would Lestrade profit much from the secret warm feelings Sherlock harboured for him. They had driven on silently for a few minutes and the DI had just begun to relax a bit when his favourite disturber of the peace raised his presumptuous, black-curled head again. "Oh, Anderson, before I forget: I was right about the killer and the waste water system. He's dead, by the way."

A distraught DI rolled his eyes heavenwards. If Holmes needed an outlet for his frustration and awkwardness, fine, but why Anderson? Why not anyone a poor underpaid civil-servant named Gregson Lestrade would _not_ have to console afterwards? "Congratulations, Sherlock" the Inspector tried to silence the pathologist's personal nemesis. "We gathered that much; - would you believe it? - all on our own from the body when he was washed up by the Thames yesterday."

"I thought I'd mention it" Sherlock murmured. For once he sounded truly chastised and subdued and Lestrade was humbly grateful for small, miraculous mercies.

The three policemen inhaled deeply to avoid sighs of relief when the car reached its destination and Anderson opened the door on Sherlock's side. "We've arrived, Your Highness. Time to alight from the carriage."

"That's not Baker Street!"

"I'm always impressed with the quickness of your mind." That was Lestrade once more. "Your brother awaits. Get off!"

Briefly Holmes hesitated. Furtively, under his lashes, he scrutinized the Inspector's face in the driver's mirror. There might be a chance to persuade him to go to Baker Street after all ….. Obviously, there was not. These set jaws, the angry frown…. No, there was nothing for it, Sherlock had to grin and bear it.

The very moment he'd left the car the door banged shut behind him and Lestrade drove off with screeching tyres. "_Thanks for the friendly support_" Sherlock thought sourly. He eyed the building façade in front of him. "_The Diogenes Club_"! That was all he needed. Every single one of the stuffy good-for-nothing half-senile silence lovers in this club loathed Mycroft Holmes' younger brother, for enough reasons to fill a special edition of the Times and every reason was a solid one.

Sherlock gritted his teeth and entered the distinguished premises, only to be apprehended by a visibly worried servant: "Mr. Holmes is in the library Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock filed the face away in his head, category "_idiot, extreme_". His long legs gave him a decisive advantage and he reached the first floor library well before the puffing servant could catch up with him. "Hello, brother dear" he said boldly when he spotted Mycroft by the whiskey trolley. Was that a _quadruple_ in the meticulously manicured hand?

"Ah, the prodigal son returns" Mycroft remarked with hatefully overbearing benevolence – and a smile to match it.

Sherlock bit his lower lip angrily and looked away, which gave Mycroft an opportunity to quickly look his younger sibling over. The little one seemed well enough. Thank heaven for that. But on the other hand… "Really, Sherlock, next time you feel the urge to treat yourself to an S&M-Camp outing you could tell your twisted friends to keep me and Her Majesty's Secret Service out of it. The photos I received were a trifle degoutant."

"It was nothing" Sherlock muttered, crestfallen despite his resolve to stand his ground "just a stupid tattoo".

"A tattoo? You got yourself a _tattoo_? And while you were at it you told these criminals all about me and our family?" Mycroft said disbelievingly. "For God's sake, Sherlock, how old are you?"

Writhing with awkwardness Sherlock wanted to reply "_it wasn't like that_." But then Mycroft would say "_then how was it?_" to which Sherlock would have to reply "_he just fooled me_" to which Mycroft would say "_only fools are fooled_" at which Sherlock would naturally take offence, and then the conversation would become heated and then Mycroft would take offence and then …Oh, hell, he might as well get it over with on a short-cut. "I'm sorry Mycroft. My fault."

"Indeed it was. Really, I do have a mind to give you a good thrashing as if you still _were_ a child. Do you have _any_ idea what hell would break lose if my superiors knew what I gave this criminal to bail you out?" Mycroft emptied his glass and, to Sherlock's profound dismay, poured himself another quadruple. "And you told him that Mommy called me sweet shanks or stuffy bunny!" the elder brother added accusingly and for some complicated, quite irrational reason that was the most hurtful accusation of all.

Naturally it made Sherlock walk up the wall. "He…. Moriarty I mean, he wanted me to stay for a few days and I thought – he said it would be just a lark and I thought I could find some evidence for Lestrade to bring him behind bars for good. The sooner he's off the road the better it'll be"

Sherlock wasn't good at apologizing at the best of times. One apology per year was the best he had to offer. And here was elder brother, clearly striving for a second and a third one in barely five minutes.

And Mycroft hadn't finished yet. "Evidence! You call that evidence. All the data you got out of him was crap. My people went over it, bit by bit. The accounts, the lists of names – all fakes, not one piece of valid information. He _wanted_ you to steal these data! First he lured you into his trap; then he fooled you into believing that you could outsmart him and finally he blackmailed me into giving him the Crown Jewels of the information age. Well done, little brother, a fine piece of work indeed."

"Nobody asked you to risk your neck for me!"

"Sherlock, he said he'd kill you."

"Why didn't _you_ give _him_ some crap in return, eh? Who said you had to give him the real thing?"

"For all I knew he'd tortured you until you fainted. I couldn't be sure that Lestrade would cut you out."

"And if Moriarty'd skinned me alive what business is it of yours? Why should _you_ care?"

Mycroft stared at the younger one, winded and speechless. "Last time" he finally managed to get out "last time I checked you were my brother."

"Well I wish I weren't. I wish I was an only child." Sherlock turned on his heel and marched out without a second look for his brother.

Damn Mycroft that he always had to overdo it. Sherlock had been perfectly willing to give in. He'd marched to Canossa and back on his knees. Twice, had Mycroft asked him to. But to put that kind of pressure on him, to cause this Himalaya of a guilty conscience – it was too much demanded.

And damn Moriarty for outsmarting both the elder and the younger brother. Someday, somehow the Consulting Criminal would pay for that. Oh yes, he'd rue the day he'd first _met_ Sherlock Holmes!

Evil thoughts of gothic revenge loomed in Sherlock's mind like black clouds that heralded a raging storm of devilish destruction. In this unhealthy state of mind he could hardly be held accountable for his actions and so it happened that he arrived at 221B in a cab without a penny on his person.

Which wasn't exactly to the cabby's liking. "Listen mate, me money or there'll be trouble. Of the bone-breaking sort."

"Mrs _Hudsooooon_" Sherlock roared while he drummed against the door for all he was worth. As much as he'd liked to vent his anger on a careless cabby he didn't think the police would take well to it. And one dispute with The Yard was enough for one day.

Finally the landlady opened the door, beaming from one ear to the other with glee. "Sherlock, you're back at last….."

"Pay the cab, will you?" snapped Holmes and off he was, up the stairs and into his living room, with only one wish in his head, to dive into his favourite chair and stay there, without seeing or hearing or talking or listening to anyone at all for a very, _very_ long time.

Alas, it wasn't meant to be. "Oh Sherlock, you're back" John sniffed. He sat in Sherlock's chair tightly wrapped up in blankets, his feet propped up on the second chair. "I'm fine by the way, thanks for asking." Sniff-sniff-sniff. "Even more thanks for bringing me that stuff from the drugstore you promised to fetch when you went out four days ago, saying you'd be back in two hours." More sniffing and a weak cough for good measure. "I knew I could always rely on my friend Sherlock Holmes in my hour of need!"

Sherlock lowered his head and closed his eyes. "_This is too much_" he thought again "_it is just too much. Why me? Why always me?_" Truth be told, he felt like sniffing too right now. Maybe he'd better stayed with Moriarty?

"Oh don't you worry" John rattled on meanwhile "a severe influenza is nothing to worry about after all. Just a 41 C fever for days, some headache, hardly worth mentioning. No trouble at all for Mrs. Hudson though. She loved doing the fetchin' and carryin' for me whilst you were out enjoying yourself, what with her bad hip and all…"

Right on cue the landlady appeared in the doorframe. "Sherlock I wouldn't say it under normal circumstances but 60 ₤ for the cab – I'm a bit pressed for cash….."

Her eyes widened innocently when she looked at Sherlock's darkening face. "You'd not say he cheated me into giving him too much?"

With two quick strides Holmes was at the mantelpiece, took a hundred pounds note out of a casket and pressed it into her hands. "Keep the change!"

She protested loudly and Holmes could barely hear John coughing "that's _my _money, Sherlock…." The very same instant the telephone in the kitchen rang loudly through the house and outside a car backfired which caused an alarmed scream of Mrs. Hudson's, John got another coughing fit – and Sherlock knew that he had had enough.

Barely two minutes later he found himself in another cab, with his credit card safely tucked away in his pocket.

On his arrival he paid the cabby off, climbed the few steps to the entrance and then the stairs up to the first floor.

It was as if Mycroft hadn't budged at all in the meantime. Without the slightest surprise he watched his brother's entry. "Back so soon?" was all he said.

"You once wanted me to join The Diogenes Club" replied Sherlock, nervously drumming his fingers on his hip. "You think there's still a chance?"

"Hardly" said Mycroft with a cocked brow. "Think of the scandal it would cause. All these feet shuffling. Some older traditionalist members might even clear their throats. In public! We couldn't allow _that_ to happen, could we."

"How can you do it, Mycroft?" Sherlock suddenly burst out. "All these plain ordinary people at your office, the staff meetings, the briefings, the debriefings, the de-de- the pre- and the post-briefings, sitting around a tea trolley, all the useless, senseless, brainless talk-talk-talk – how do you cope?"

"Why do you think I became a member of the only obligatory silent club in London?" Mycroft asked back, mildly amused. "And besides – I've been through a hard schooling since childhood. You know, I'm _not_ an only child."

Sherlock felt a grin spread on his face, much against his will, yet irresistible. "No rest for the wicked, eh? Not anywhere."

"You could always have a cup of tea with me in here. Tell me what you know about this Moriarty fellow and what he wants from you and John."

Sherlock stood rigidly upright and silent for a second before he distorted his mouth as if he'd bitten into a lemon. Finally he sat down opposite his brother and looked everywhere except at Mycroft.

The tea was served. "I'll be mother" the elder brother said out of habit when he poured it and Sherlock snorted derisively, likewise out of habit.

Two cucumber sandwiches, one biscuit and three cups of Darjeeling First Flush later Sherlock suddenly muttered, quite out of the blue, "thanks, Mycroft. For everything."

"You're welcome" the elder one softy replied. "You always are."

This made for another three-sandwiches pause in the conversation.

Subsequently Sherlock pulled himself together, inhaled deeply and said: "About James Moriarty…."

"He's going to regret that he has been born" said Mycroft.

He was rewarded with a toothy grin, garnished with tiny slices of cucumber. "My thoughts exactly. Seems we're brothers after all."

Hours later, Sherlock had at last mustered the courage to give 'home sweet home' another try, Mycroft took up his mobile for what he hoped would be the last time today. "Hello, John? Yes, he's on his way to Baker Street as we speak. Whatever you did to drive him mad it worked a treat. Can you imagine, he even asked for Club membership. I owe you one."

Mycroft listened briefly before he continued "no I don't think I'll have sleepless nights about the information I gave to Moriarty. All these people deserve everything the Consulting Criminal has in store for them, and more."

The call ended on a very amiable note. "Good night, John. Take care of my little brother, his feathers have been cruelly ruffled. And, if possible, do not only watch his back, have a look at it, too."

It was way past midnight when Mycroft left The Diogenes Club and walked home. He smiled a bit when he thought of all the naughty boys and girls he had had on his files for ages without any chance to make them pay for their wickedness. Tomorrow, at breakfast, in their posh houses or hotels, they would find Moriarty's message under their golden plate: Pay day.

True enough, Mycroft had sweated cold when he had binned the criminal's list of names and firms. Instead Moriarty had got data about the people _Mycroft _thought deserving of the Consulting Criminal's tender attention, even though the picture of what this disobedience might do to his brother had been foremost on the elder Holmes' mind.

But all was well now. Moriarty would do the dirty work the Secret Service was too precious and too noble to do and in the end the Criminal Mastermind would do what people like him always did – he would overreach himself. "_Wenn's dem Esel zu gut geht, geht er auf's Glatteis_" was an old German saying and it was true for almost all people.

The Consulting Criminal would make the tiniest mistake – and then the Holmes brothers would have their revenge.

James Moriarty stood no chance. After all, the man was just an only child.

**A/N: That was it, people, the final chapter. Just an epilogue yet to come and then the story will be complete. Let us know what to you think, reviews are always very welcome. By the way, the German saying Mycroft thinks of roughly translates as :"If the donkey is too happy he'll go skating and break his legs."**


	10. Remains of the week

**10. Remains of the week**

James Moriarty was lost in thought when he packed his stuff. One small bag, some stuff from the bathroom and that was it. A beautiful house full of precious items, a garden most meticulously tended and sculptured to perfection, clothes and personal belongings worth a fortune – so much he left behind and yet so little.

Money, possession, wealth and the life-style that came with it – that had been an issue when he started his career but that had been a long, long time ago.

Today it didn't matter.

What _did_ matter though was to be on the top of things, the greatest of them all. Top dogs' top dog or die in the attempt – just like Sherlock did.

Risk one's life to prove who's best.

On that score, for the first time in his long-standing career as the master-villain, Moriarty had a mixed balance to show.

True enough, Mycroft had delivered what could easily be made into a hangman's noose around Iceman's professional neck. And Sherlock, the great Sherlock Holmes, _had_ fallen for the faked data on the Harry Potter netbook, a thing the Consulting Detective would certainly chew on. But - Mycroft had presented his opponent with a two-sided sword. There _was_ a king's ransom to be made from these information but to explore them would mean to do Iceman's work for him. Keep the real scoundrel's hands lily white while one's own became dirtied.

Exposed.

James didn't like that. He was the shining diamond in the shadows, now Iceman was going to force him out into the light.

"_We'll see about that, Mr. Holmes senior" _Moriarty thought. There surely was a chance to let people know who was behind the security leak that would cost some apparently decent and honorable citizens so much more than just their money. And if there was, James would find it in the end. Mycroft Holmes hadn't heard the last of this.

However, the order of the day was to give in to Mycroft's demands. Leave England and Europe. Find a safe place somewhere else, a place with reliable associates, a ready bank account and some high ranking connections. A place to regroup, make a plan and start his revenge from a durable power base.

Moriarty knew lots of such places.

That wasn't the problem.

But leaving England would mean leaving Mycroft's younger brother, too.

James hadn't had so much fun with another human being for as long as he could remember. If only he had had enough time, if only Mycroft hadn't cut the game short – perhaps he could have kept his wildcat to himself.

No, _most certainly_ he could have kept his wildcat to himself.

So, it was all Mycroft's fault.

Yes, that was the explanation.

If it hadn't been for the elder Holmes' stuffy concepts of right and wrong, the younger brother would still be with the only man in the world who could really appreciate Sherlock's qualities. The man who could give him anything, anything at all.

Sherlock Holmes had been born for one reason only – to provide the most brilliant brain on the planet with some suitable company! It was the sole purpose of Sherlock's life and Mycroft was just too jealous and too selfish to accept that!

James zipped his bag with an angry frown. Maybe, now that Sherlock was gone, it was better to get away for a while.

"I'm off, Sebastian" he called at Moran through the open door between their rooms. "To the airport!"

"Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?" Sebastian asked, audibly anxious, as always when a parting loomed ahead. Eager to please or anxious for a friend's safety? Did he actually _like_ his boss or did he just need the criminal mastermind to think for him? James had never known and, truth be told, he didn't care much.

Weren't ordinary people tedious? Who pitied James Moriarty for being forced by necessity to cope with someone like Moran? And Sherlock had _chosen_ to get himself a live-in one. How could he stand it? Having this ordinary little brain around? Day after day? Dull-dull-_dull_! And he could have lived with the greatest intellect of all. Poor, misguided Sherlock.

"Thanks, Sebastian" James answered lightly, carelessly. "But I think I need to do this alone. No need to spell your important role in my organization out for Mr. Iceman." There, that would keep the dear Colonel in good spirits for many a week. How easy it was to make him happy. Like passing cheap chocolate to an unspoilt child.

And of course – what did he say? Moran beamed from one ear to the other, grinned like the proverbial Cheshire Cat.

James gave him s lopsided grin and headed out, the Colonel with his own bag in his wake. They passed the guest room – Sherlock's room. It brought Moriarty's melancholia back. "I guess leaving isn't such a bad idea after all. I wonder why I stay in London any way – here's nothing to keep me. And Sherlock's gone now. Out of reach for the time being."

He should have _looked _over his shoulder at Sebastian instead of just tossing these words at the man. For Moran's face fell and the former grin vanished as if it had never existed. The one moment would have answered all of James' questions as to what his second-in-command saw in him.

But James missed it completely.

"I need sometime to myself" he said "I will see you in a few weeks at the agreed meet ing point. Keep an eye on things for me, will you. Bye, Sebastian."

Moriarty walked out of the door and headed for his car.

At the airport, when he checked in for his flight to a new – if temporarily - life he spot ted a young, handsome woman who watched him. Very flattering, had he not known Anthea from sight.

So! Mycroft was anxious to see him off.

Well, he had every reason to be anxious and before this was really over, Iceman would have even more reasons to feel anxiety.

Once up in the air, as soon as the "fasten seat belts" signs were off, James sipped his champagne with relish. In his lap he held his notebook and with his free hand he typed as fast as he could and yet it wasn't nearly fast enough to keep up with his thoughts.

The woman behind him, a nosy creature around fifty with a curiosity even bigger than her bossom, read his headline and found it necessary to meddle with his affairs. "Wildcats cant be tamed, you know" she said self-importantly. "If you try you destroy them."

James looked her over for a split second before he answered. "The way you destroyed your late husband, madam? He _did_ commit suicide because of you, did he not? Perhaps you _are_ a trifle overbearing and suffocating at times?"

Gratifyingly she paled and fell silent after that, as well as back into her seat and James came back to his text.

Oh, the things he would do to Sherlock next time...

It definitely was something to look forward to!

_**FINIS**_

_****_**/N: So that's it, people. The End. Perhaps we'll write a sequel one day, who knows? May depend on the number of your reviews :-). So please, don't be ordinary, don't be tedious, just let us have your thoughts on the story. **

**By the way, Dark Magical Sorcres is just working on another story, in which our friends (and foes) from Baker Street will encounter some magic of the female sort. Just you wait...!  
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